7.1% ABV from a growler

A Tough Nut to Crack, an Easy Slut to Sack

I flipped open my cell, scrolled to her number in my Contacts, put my thumb on the “Send” button, and…paused.  I realized I had no idea what I was doing.  Shit, I hadn’t done something like this in years.

For awhile I’ve thought I had pretty decent “game.”  Now I’m no Giacomo Casanova or anything, but I’ve always been a deep studier, a student, an autodidact, and a tinkerer and after a decade-plus of noticing my many failures and successes in the world of women, I thought I had developed some pretty decent skills.  In fact, I’d felt for the past few years that I’d made these skills, these dos and don’ts, such an ingrained part of my persona that I could just successfully exist around women on autopilot, which is a great thing when you’re often loaded.  I’d gotten pretty damn good at soliciting reciprocal intrigue from strange women that I was attracted to, at culling contact info from them, landing dates and outings, which typically lead to in flagranteness.  Each of those steps a chance to flounder, to have the process aborted on me, yet I was still putting up both great contact and power numbers.  We’re talking a .350 AVG, maybe a .450 OBP, and a slugging percentage that would make Jimmie Foxx blush.

That is until I met Miriam.

My god was she gorgeous.  Just silly attractive.  About as good-looking as a girl could be without you thinking she must surely be an actress or a model, though, then again, when you actually meet actresses and/or models you’re often like, “That’s it?!”  But I digress.  I was in a piece-of-shit Murray Hill sportsbar killing some time one night when I heard violent shouting to my right:

“Goddammit Ilgauskas, could you defend the fucking the pick-and-roll?!  Big Baby is torching you!”

“Would a little hustle be too much to ask, Delonte?!”

“Yep, me too, Lebron, I’d be shaking my head in dismay too if I was playing with these bozos.”

The shouting was female.  I turned and saw her.  5′2″, 110 pounds, flowing golden locks, emerald green doe eyes, high cheek bones beset on a flawlessly symmetrical face, the flattest stomach I’ve ever seen peekabooing from just under the bottom of her tank top as she pumped her fist in the air after Anderson Varejao took a charge.  Who was this divine creature?

“Big Cavs fan, huh?”

She didn’t even respond to me, as if she was ignoring me completely.  But she wasn’t, because the second the game went to TV timeout, she turned to me with the sweetest smile on her face, the softest voice, kindly explaining that, no, she wasn’t a Cleveland Cavaliers fan, not in the least, she was just a sports fan.  An addict.  Who was this dream girl?  I was intimated.  Good lord.  Both by her attractiveness and sports acumen.  Now, I’m no chump in the sports knowledge department, not in the least, but when a 10-out-of-10 beauty turns to you and matter of factly says, “Am I crazy or is Mo Williams overplaying Rondo to the left?,” there’s not much you can do besides go, “Uh… so would you like a drink or sumpin’?”

Not that I usually ever buy drinks for girls because I am an insensitive cheapskate and I’m not a sap and I am a guy that always usually knows what to say and offering to buy a drink is the last refuge of the sap and guy with no clue and, shit, now I was a sap with no clue what to do.

Unfortunately, she didn’t drink.  Didn’t drink?!  Who doesn’t drink?  I mean she drank liquid, water and Gatorade and ginger ale, she was in no danger of dehydrating don’t fret, she simply didn’t drink al-kee-hawl.  She wasn’t religious or a recovering alcoholic, just very much into fitness and energy and health and she didn’t find that alcohol fit anywhere into that lifestyle.  My plea that alcohol makes sure your blood is thin and pumping, didn’t even convince her.  So I awkwardly sat there trying to flirt with this teetotaling, gorgeous, sports savant, no clue what to do…but get loaded myself.  I drank so quickly and nervously that I don’t really recall much of how that night ended, but I guess she liked me somewhat because before I left she coolly handed me her card and said, “Call me.”

Call her?

Shit, I hadn’t called a girl in years.  My modus operandi for the longest time had been to get girl’s e-mail addresses.  A lot of people make fun of me for that, but it’s so much simpler.  Besides the fact that I hate talking on the phone, I also don’t like dealing with things in a time sensitive manner.  Nothing better than shooting off an e-mail in the morning and giving the gal all the time she wants to respond for the rest of the day.

I first realized I had a power with words back in 11th grade.  I knew I was a good writer, even then, but I didn’t know the effect my words could have.  That was until the last day of class that year when during a yearbook signing period I quickly scratched out a message to a girl I had an unrequited crush on.  Now, I hadn’t written anything romantic or perhaps even creepy, if that’s what you’re wondering, I had just slopped down a nice “good to know you” message.  The kind of message I would slop down for any one, guy or girl, that I honestly felt it was good to know.

I thought nothing of that message until later that night when the girl called me–she never called me!–to tell me that her and her mother had been rereading over my message all night, it had moved them so much, to tears even, and she just wanted to thank me for my beautiful note.  From that point on, I realized how I could affect people with my writing, and I began wielding my pen like an epee.

And now I was being handicapped, one of my greatest skills taken away from me!  I hadn’t called a girl to ask her on a date since like 2002.  How did one even go about doing such a thing?!  I was actually getting nervous!  I don’t get nervous for anything any more.  Shit, what to do?  I went to Facebook to look at her page.  Maybe she wasn’t as good looking as I recall.  Perhaps she was not truly that interesting.  Maybe she listed her religious affiliation as Wiccan.  But she didn’t even have a page!  The hell?  What twentysomething chick doesn’t have a Facebook profile?  Well, at least I knew she didn’t have any children, cause no new mother nowadays can possibly avoid posting zillion of pictures and inane status updates about their miserable rugrats.

Should I just text her?  Naw, that would be cowardly.  And, I later found out, impossible.  She didn’t even have a cell phone.  I called the number she gave me, a landline, and fought through the nerves to arrange a date.  She had only one rule:  we had to go to a bar with plenty of TVs, and good ones, she wasn’t going to miss that night’s Nuggets/Lakers game.

Meeting up with her that evening, she was just as gorgeous as I recall.  I pounded Sierra Nevada Celebration Ales while she drank cranberry juice.  I quizzed her on her seeming lack of technology, her Luddite values.  She didn’t have a Facebook page because she thought it was childish, a time suck.  I couldn’t disagree with that.  She didn’t have a cell phone because she didn’t like to be reached at any time, any place.  She also thought it was rude to have your ears and eyes glued to a device while out with other people.  Again, couldn’t disagree with that.  As for e-mail, she only checked it once a week, so sending her messages was borderline pointless.

I soon realized, I had no fucking clue what to do.  I’d followed a very simple pattern with the previous zillion women I’ve dated:  get e-mail address, send pithy and humorous message the next day or so, meet at bar around happy hour, get loaded going drink-for-drink with a girl I outweighed by fifty pounds at least, be funny, be interesting, and by midnight or later I was usually in bed with said female.  I had a system, a damn good system, but now I was flummoxed.  Especially, when at 9 PM, Miriam told me she had to get to bed.  As in, go to bed alone.  Seems she wakes up every morning at 4 AM to work out in order to be at her job by 7 AM.

Who was I dealing with?!

She quickly kissed me on the lips and sprinted from the place, leaving me there to reassess what went wrong.  Our chemistry had been solid enough, sure, but I never felt like we were making a full connection, she seemingly more interested in Carmelo Anthony’s shooting that night than in my hilarious anecdotes.

I typically wouldn’t even continue going after a girl like Miriam after such a modest failure of a first date, but she was too goddamn hot.  Maybe she was just shy, nervous herself.  And did I always have to take the easy way out?  The easy sluts to sack or the tough nut to crack?  I needed to try to pick up my game, swim in the deep end without any floaties on my biceps.  You can only get better at things if you challenge yourself, right?

Forced to call her again for a second date, I would have to show up and be as charismatic as I’ve ever been, and be aggressive and sexy and manly.  I’d have to work quick, cause I’d only have til her witching hour of 9, but I could make it work.  I’d barely drink as well, flip the tables on her.  Yes!  Maybe she was only so intimidating, so cocksure, because she was a sober beauty dealing with drunken buffoons like me, each pint we drank knocking five points off our IQs until Miriam was dealing with a borderline retard.  But I would flounder again this time, too self-conscious at my behavior, my lack of drinking, her placid and sober demeanor.  After we again chastely kissed goodbye at 9:00 on the dot, I knew it was over.

Walking home up Ninth Avenue, I came to the realization that I must have no game.  Sure, I’m good at meeting women, good at getting them to meet me out, and good at–I guess–taking semi-advantage of them while we’re both equally drunk.  And, once a women’s slept with you once, the hard part is over.  Even if she doesn’t like you once you’re already one of her “numbers,” a tally on her sexual abacus, she figues you guys might as well forge some sort of relationship out of this fact, whether you become as much as boyfriend and girlfriend or just sometime besotted bedmates.

In fact, it could be said that chemically, once you’ve slept with a woman that first drunken night, the bond has been formed for the immediate future as Oxytocin is released into the women’s nervous system during distension of the cervix and hopefully for her sake orgasm, causing her to have a mysteriously uncontrollable and intense need to bond with you.  Even for a night.

I went home, dejected and popped the top on a growler of Alpine Nelson which the great Jesse the Hutt had procured for me.  Macro straw clear with a head like a root beer float yet otherwise minimal carbonation.   Likewise minimal bitterness and smooth sweet rye taste accented by prominent hints of citrus and mango.  Dangerously drinkable, I quickly took down half the growler on that first night and spent the whole next day thinking about the second half I still had to enjoy.  Shockingly, my second day of the Nelson growler was even better and truly put this number over the top.  It had become even sweeter and almost completely lacking in carbonation now it had the mouthfeel as if it was off cask.  Simply one of the best single IPAs I’ve ever had, right up there with Pliny the Elder, Masala Mama, and Sixty Minute.  You absolutely have to find this beer if you can.

This weekend I went back to hanging out with the kind of sweetheart of a girl that will completely communicate with me via text and e-mail, the kind of girl that has a Facebook page, that will drink hard with me til 5 in the morning, slowly getting drunker and drunker, more and more into me.  Predictably, I of course, found amatory success with that time-tested formula and we had a swell night.

Yes, I may not truly have any game, but at least I’m goddamn good at meeting attractive and technological savvy drunkards that are allowed to sleep in.  I’ll stick with them for the foreseeable future.

A+

My good buddy Aaron over at The Captain’s Chair thought I’d do well to try some brews from Marshall, Michigan’s acclaimed Dark Horse Brewing Company, and being that we don’t get any in NYC, he kindly sent me a nice little passel of them.

(My usual caveat to those readers that skim over the beer review parts and simply read this blog for the humor, insight, and perversion:  skip this post*)

Plead the Fifth Imperial Stout

12% ABV bottled

From their limited Holiday Stout Series, I unfortunately did not love this much-adored beer.  But I still liked it quite a bit.  I found it a solid but unspectacular Russian Imperial Stout with a predominantly roasted malt flavor accented by a slight chocolate sweetness and a smidge of hops bitterness.  I did love its smooth booziness and I gots to tip my hat to any 12 ouncer of beer that can put me down for an evening.  Hope to give this brew another try in the future to hopefully find out if I’m missing anything.

B+

Fore Smoked Stout

ABV unknown and Dark Horse ain’t telling…

Another from the Holiday Stout Series, I solidly enjoyed this one.  Smoked porters and stouts are often a tricky exercise in brewing and all too often I find them poorly balanced in one way or the other.  Either far too smokey or far too sweet.  This one wasn’t.  It was very smokey, obviously, like a piece of BBQed meat, but well balanced with sweet tastes of licorice and chocolate malt.  A nice mouthfeel and quite drinkable, but I must admit, the smoked beer I drank immediately after this one I enjoyed a bit more…The Captain’s homebrewed smoked porter.**

B+

Crooked Tree IPA

6% ABV bottled

I’d had a worldclass IPA to-be-named-later previous to this one, so maybe that distorted my palate, but I still suspect that this is just a good, but not great IPA.  It smells fresh and fragrant but the taste is just too bitter and unbalanced.  Salty even with next to no citrus profile like you’d expect.  Nevertheless, it’s a nice drinking single IPA and I could polish off a tub of these in a night.  Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

B

All in all, none of this troika of Dark Horses floored me, but I dug them all and could tell this is a brewery with some chops and inventiveness.  I hope to try more of their intriguing brews in the future.

*And come back tomorrow.  I’ll have a tale.

**Suck up alert!  Send me more!

5.75% ABV bottled

On First Dates

I’m an egotist, so unlike most people, I actually like first dates.  Hell, I downright love them.  On a first date I’m like an excited filmmaker unveiling his new movie to a test audience that’s never seen it before.  Like a comic who has been traversing the continent for the last decade, thousands upon thousands of jokes over the years in his repertoire now honed-down to a taut and flawless ten minute club act.  And now he gets to perform in a city he’s never played before!  Not that I go into any dates with scripted material or put on an act.  I’m like Popeye and I yam who I yam.  (Though it’s beer not spinach which gives me my bravado.)  I’m more like a besotted improvist able to carefully take my thirty years of material, stories, jokes, anecdotes, thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals and insert them whenever a conversation needs them, to weave them into the fabric of the night, wherever it may be headed.

It’s exciting to be with someone who knows nothing about you.  Your friends know all your material, stories, jokes, anecdotes, thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals several times over and quite frankly they’re kinda bored with them.  That’s why most longtime male friends simply go drinking together in loud and dark bars, sitting side-by-side and bending elbows but rarely talking, only occasionally injecting thoughts on women in the bar via head nods and guttural grunts, oohs and aahs toward sporting happenings on the big screen, and mumbled “igottagotakealeaksavemyseat.”  Many of my very best friends don’t even read The Vice Blog.  They don’t have to.  They’ve heard all this shit before.  Plus, several are illiterate.

In a few hours I’m going on a first date.  I don’t know what the girl looks like, nor anything about her.  I was at a party over the weekend and a friend of a friend–not even a friend, mind you–asked me if I would go out this week with a friend of her’s.  Thus a friend of a friend of a friend.  If the enemy of my enemy is my friend, what is the friend of the friend of my friend?  Alas, I agreed to go on the date.  Hey, I always need material and I like adventures.  Also, Tuesday night TV kinda sucks.  Any ways what’s the worst that can happen?  (Actually I know.  Maybe I should write about that someday.)  I don’t usually like writing about events in my life in real time because I don’t want to affect the events or shape them in any way by intellectualizing them.  You know, like Heisenberg’s observer effect?

It’s not even exactly a real date, not like I ever go on “real” dates.  You won’t find your venerable Vice Blogger ever nervously pulling out a girl’s chair at Olive Garden and making inane small talk.  For this “date,” I am simply supposed to meet up with the girl at a Happy Hour her former college’s alumni club is hosting.*  Fine with me, alcohol is a must on a first date, if not all dates.  I have nothing to do right now but wait, so I’ll start early.  I don’t really get nerves, but lowering the inhibitions is never a bad thing in most anything you do in life.  As I write this I sip a Bitter Woman sent to me by the smartly-named Aaron over at The Captain’s Chair.  Silky, almost creamy, bitter almost sour.  A very good sessionable IPA, though I’ll only have one.  Eh, maybe two.

But I’ve spoken about myself too much at this point, something I would never do on a first date.  As much as I like controlling and dominating conversation, I also like learning about new people.  Everyone, even incredibly boring people, should have a few interesting things to say the first time you meet them.  And I want to hear these things.  I’m not interested in typical “getting-to-know-you” job interview type questions like most nervous blokes launch into after having pulled the girl’s chair out so she can sit at their reserved Olive Garden table.  “What do you do?”  “Where do you work?”  “Where do you live?”  “Where were you born?”  Boring.  I want to know my counterpart’s material, stories, jokes, anecdotes, thoughts, feelings, ideas, and ideals built up over a period of eighteen to, eh, let’s say thirty-five years.  By golly, entertain me woman!  I’m entertaining you, let’s have a little quid pro quo here.

Luckily, I’m usually so relaxed (read: drunk) that my dates instantly become relaxed (read: drunk) and things flow swimmingly.  Yes, my dates usually seem to go “well,” however you want to define that, because I’m interesting, excitable, “different,” a little weird, slightly transgressive, and hopefully not too drunk.

Eventually, after my date has spoken about herself for awhile, she’ll wonder what I “do,” and my hubris will of course lead to me telling her about The Vice Blog.  Then, later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning in her office–assuming she works in an office setting, recall I know nothing about her as of this second– she’ll pull this entry up on her desk computer and read it and hopefully still be reading it as we reach the end here at which point she may scroll down to the comment section below and write:

“Aaron you were such a(n)…”

?

B+

*OK, I guess I do know one thing about my date:  she went to a much better college than me.

7.25% ABV from a bomber

My Quasi-Celebrity Girlfriend, Part III

(previously…)

“Just go hail a cab for us!”

We stood in the lobby of the Land O’Lakes Girl’s building, me in normal date attire, her dressed like the Land O’Lakes Girl.

“You know, you didn’t have to trick me into coming to this trade show with you.  I would have gone.  I got nothing better to do.”

A few feet away, the doorman and a building custodian snickered at the costumed Land O’Lakes Girl while, nevertheless, ogling her fantastic tanned legs.

“Yeah, well I’m sorry about that, I thought you might be freaked out.”

“I can’t believe a ‘celebrity’ like you doesn’t get limo service to the Javits Center.”

She rolled her eyes at me.  “I get reimbursed on my cab fare.  Now will you go hail us one?  I don’t want to be stared at by everyone.”

“I won’t go out there unless you come with me.”

On the sidewalk, as the Land O’Lakes Girl glared at me and shivered, trying to cover up her exposed skin as best she could, I tried to flag down a taxi, while neighborhood passersby paid my quasi-celebrity girlfriend…no attention.  This is New York City, mind you, nine out of ten people dress like assholes.

En route, the Land O’Lakes Girl admitted that she was always humiliated at working conventions so she was glad she would have some support from me.

“If you’re so humiliated by this, then why do you do it?”

“Hey, it’s for $500.  And I don’t get much work nowadays.”

She looked in the cabbie’s mirror and adjusted her feather headband.

“Any how, it’s a good networking opportunity.”

Good networking opportunity?

“Oh yeah, wait til you see.  There will be so many amazing, important, and powerful people here.”

Then we arrived at the packaged and canned foods convention.  And I saw all the amazing, important, and powerful people at the Javits Center.  There was Tony the Tiger and Cap’n Crunch and the Sun-Maid Raisin Lady and Chester Cheetah and one of the Keebler elves and hey, isn’t that Snap, Crackle, and Pop?  I can never tell those guys apart, but luckily they have their names on their hats lest you commit a major social faux pas and call Snap Crackle and Pop Snap.*

All these huuuuuuuge “celebrities” manning information booths while fat slobs wandered the convention floor amassing any free shit they could.

The Land O’Lakes Girl was shown to her booth and I helped her set up.  We laid out brochures and informational pamphlets and tiny free samples of Land O’Lakes butter for, I guess, those humans who have never sampled butter before and finally wish to just pop an unadulterated pat into their mouth sans toast or waffles or flapjacks.

Morons would come by, schmooze up the Land O’Lakes Girl, stuff a few pats of butter into their fanny packs, throw some pamphlets into their convention bags, schmooze up the Land O’Lakes Girl some more, and then ask for a picture.  There was a Polaroid camera at our booth and convention-goers were encouraged to get their photo taken with my quasi-celebrity girlfriend like she was some Playboy Playmate or a Hooter’s waitress.  It was shocking how many men wanted their picture taken with the Land O’Lakes Girl like she was someone important.  Each new photo-requester making her feel less and less important to me like indigenous Papa New Guineans believe cameras steal your soul.  Of course, I was the one forced to snap the Polaroids.  I intentionally framed them poorly.

After awhile, our booth hit a lull and for the first time since we had begun dating I actually looked at a Land O’Lakes box at the convention table.  Weird that I had never done it previously seeing as nowadays I over-Google every new girl I meet before any sort of relationship proceeds.  Then again, this relationship had been a torrent whirlwind.  I put the box up beside the Land O’Lakes Girl’s head.   You know, she didn’t really look like the chick on the box at all.

“What are you doing?” she sternly asked.

Would the 3-D Land O’Lakes Girl look like the 2-D Land O’Lakes Girl if she was shrunk down to one hundredth size?  Hard to say.

“Nothin’.  Will you autograph a box for me sometime?”

I smiled slyly.

She kissed me on the lips and grabbed the box from my hand.  She examined it, smirked to herself.

“They sure made my face look a lot fatter on the box.”

She tossed it aside.

Just then, on the other side of the convention floor, an enormous man in dark forest tights covered up by a leaf-garbed one-sleeved onesie ala Andre the Giant, strolled by in a gawky gait.

The Land O’Lakes Girl could barely contain her excitement.

“I used to have such a crush on him.”

I retracted.

“The fucking Jolly Green Giant?!”

She nodded.

“We used to be at a lot of the same events together.  I’d always flirt with him but he was never interested.  I think he had a girlfriend.”

“But he looks like a buffoon.  His tights aren’t taut.  They’re saggy and you can see he has a poor body.  Droopy man boobs and little chicken legs.  Plus, how can you tell what he looks like under that green grease paint on his face?”

“Oh I saw him without make-up once.  Very good-looking.”

She said the final line quite emphatically.

I’d had enough of this wacky pathetic convention and the Land O’Lakes Girl for the moment.  I was bored and hungry and a little perturbed and I decided to take a lap of the convention floor, hopefully to find some food.  I quickly realized I could piece together somewhat of a lunch with all the free samples from the booths:  granola bars and energy drinks and trail mixes and children’s fruit snacks.

I found myself at an Oscar Meyer booth absentmindedly looking through some pamphlets promoting the newest line of Lunchables pizzas when a rep at the booth–clad in a hot dog wiener costume natch–began schmoozing me up.

“So, you a rep?”

I looked up, confused.

“Huh?  Uh no.”

“In distribution?”

“Uhn uh.”

“School administrator then?!”

The wiener did an index finger gun point at me to emphasize what he thought was a correct guess.

“Naw.  Just looking for free samples.  I’m actually here because a friend of mine has to work.”

The wiener went into an Igloo cooler behind him and pulled out a box of Lunchables Maxxxed Out Peperoni Pizza.

“Friend, huh?  Any one I’d know?  I go to a lot of these dumb things.”

He ripped the cellophane off the top of the Lunchables tray and began preparing a piece for me, squirting some ketchup red sauce on a Matzo-cracker of a “crust” before adorning it was areola pink discs of low-grade meat.

Pure deadpan:  “Oh yeah, she’s pretty ‘famous,’ it’s the Land O’Lakes Girl.”

His eyes got huge as he handed me the pizza he had finished preparing.

“Yeah, she certainly is ‘famous.’”  He had accented the “famous” in a more mocking way than even I had.  I believe he was making fun of the Land O’Lakes Girl.  Hey, no one makes fun of my quasi-celebrity girlfriend but me!

“Great picture of her on the box, huh?”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Are you joking?”

He shrugged.

“So that isn’t her on the box is it?  Is that what you’re saying?  It sure doesn’t look like her.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

I eyed him, trying to get a read on what he was implicitly trying to tell me.  If he was trying to tell me anything.

“Well good to talk to you, pal.”

He smiled.  “It was good to meet Mr. Land O’Lakes too,” he said with a huge smile, trying to get my goat.

“These are terrible by the way,” I said as I frisbee tossed the remaining half of my slimy Lunchables pizza into his booth’s garbage.

“I know,” I heard him mumble as I headed back to the other side of the Javits Center.

Upon returning to the Land O’Lakes Girl’s booth, I found her no longer alone.  Nope, now The Jolly Green Giant was in the booth and they appeared to be canoodling, giggling with each other.  She looked surprised to see me, like she had forgotten I was there with her.

“Aaron, uh, hey…”

The Jolly Green Giant extended his hand.

“Aaron, this is Eric.”

I’d had about enough of this scene and wanted to leave, but if you know Manhattan then you know the Jacob K. Javits Center is way on the west side, nestled in that beautiful region boxed by the Westside Highway, the Lincoln Tunnel, and sexy Eleventh Avenue, also known as…the middle of fucking nowhere.  I’d have to walk forever or spend a shitload on a cab to get back to civilization.  I’d just grin and bear it and wait for the Land O’Lakes Girl and her reimbursable cab ride to take us home.

Luckily, the convention was dying down by now and the Land O’Lakes Girl decided it was time to clean up a bit and soon leave.  The Jolly Green Giant headed back to his booth to do likewise.

“Eric was thinking we should all go get a drink after this.”

“Who the fuck is Eric?”

The Land O’Lakes Girl gave me a look like I was a moron.  “Uh, The Jolly Green Giant.”

I could definitely use a drink but I wasn’t sure I felt like hanging out with him.  Then again, even though I was getting sick of the Land O’Lakes Girl, no little fruit…er, vegetable…was going to steal her from me.

“Come on, he’s a nice guy, I swear.”

The Land O’Lakes Girl smiled at me and gave me a kiss and I remembered why I liked her in the first place.

And soon we were standing on Eleventh Avenue trying to get a cab, none, of course, to be found.

“I know a great bar within walking distance,” Eric, the Jolly Green Giant, chirped.

Jesus.

If you know anything about the bars way on the westside of Manhattan…well, if you know anything about those bars then you’re probably a low rent hooker, a stevedore, a junkie, or one real badass.  These are serious dive bars, son.  You may think you go to dive bars.  You may laugh at the surly bartender who gives you a slightly foggy pitcher of cheap macro swill.  You may be tickled at how grossed out you are by the unisex bathroom with a standing water floor and graffitied walls.  You may be real amused at the jukebox full of David Allen Coe and George Thorogood ditties.  But you don’t go to dive bars.  You go to faux-dive bars.  Saying you go to dive bars is like an eleven-year-old claiming he went to an authentic haunted house last October 30th when his parents drove him to that warehouse right off the highway and paid $35 apiece for some unsuccessful drama club failures to spook the youngster.  The dive bars you go to are essentially just Hollywood sets erected to cater to you and your need to “slum” it for a night.  Real dive bars aren’t nestled between a Zagat-rated French restaurant and a free trade coffee shop et fromagerie.**

Real dive bars are on Eleventh and Twelfth Avenue, nestled between storage facilities and motorcycle repair shops and secret brothels and hot dog cart supply companies.  They have names like Ollie’s and McCullough’s and Joe’s.  If they have names at all.  Most are anonymous, just a blacked out sign, a neon High Life light in the front tinted window, and a door with a few nine millimeter holes in it.  You can’t see into these bars from the street so it’s a gamble–a major gamble–every time you push the swinging door open and enter one.  Who knows what you’ll find, what seediness, sordidness, clientele. If you have ZERO chance of getting killed for accidentally looking at someone funny or for saying the wrong thing, then you are not in a dive bar.

We headed to one of these scary dive bars on Twelfth Avenue and the low Forties, the Jolly Green Giant proudly fucking strutting down the street as the few transients that far west stared at the freak.  The Land O’Lakes Girl walked beside him and I hung back a few steps, like I might not actually be with these two.  The Land O’Lakes Girl turned around angrily.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me, Aaron?”

“Nope.  Not you.”

Soon we were at the dive bar and, of course, as we entered–”So an Indian girl, a Jolly Green Giant, and a pissed off Jew enter a bar…”–all the beefy, flannel-clad roughnecks rubbernecked toward us.  The bartender with a Rollie Fingers handlebar mustache snickered.

“I’d ax for youse guys’ IDs, but then again it pro’ly wouldn’t mattah, eh?”

The completely male population of the bar gruffly chuckled, each tippling denizen seeming to base their own personal style off of that of a Major League relief pitcher of the last few decades.  There was the guy at the back pool table with a “The Mad Hungarian” Al Hrabosky mop of hair, the guy stuffing his Mitch Williams curly mulleted face with some pretzels, the guy chugging Wild Turkey shots and then slurping the excess whiskey out of his Goose Gossage fu manchu.

It was an uncomfortable scene.  At least for me as I wondered how my life got to the point where I was sitting on a barstool seat essentially made out of duct tape, alternating between swigs of Budweiser and Wild Turkey as two costumed freaks surprisingly seemed to be making friends with the entire dive bar who were somewhat tickled by the two.  The two huge celebrities also seemed to be coming together in a union the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since the great DiMaggio and Norma Jeane Mortenson.

There’s probably a “Ho, ho, ho” joke in here somewhere regarding the Land O’Lakes Girl so cavalierly eschewing me.  Then again, I’m just an average Joe.

Eventually, the Land O’Lakes Girl headed off to the bathroom and The Jolly Green Giant sidled up beside me.

“So Aaron, you and Sara dating or just friends?  I can’t really tell.”

I thought about my torrid one-week relationship with a maybe-faux-quasi-celebrity and decided…

“Go for it dude.”

…it was over.

This story was not a fable because it was true and I am not Aesop and thus, unlike a fable, it has no moral, no significant principal culled, no lesson learned, no “one to grow on.”  I guess, the one thing to take away is to just not date crazy girls.  Or, just don’t date them for too long.  You’ll know when you’ve reached the precipice.

I winked at the Jolly Green Giant as I left the bar.  I finally understood why that bartender had winked at me just one week previous.  The Jolly Green Giant was in for quite a week I reckoned.

When I got home, free again, I popped a much coveted bomber of AleSmith’s highly rated IPA.  A smell so fresh, piny, citrusy.  Nicely carbonated and quite fizzy.  Strong grapefruit tastes with a very dry finish that lingers on the tongue with an awesome bitterness.  Very sticky, it makes your mouth and throat phlegmy like you’ve just had some freshly squeezed OJ, an oddly telling sign of a great hoppy IPA.  DIPA or IPA, who cares, this is freaking wonderful.  I have no quibbles but it’s not exactly transcendent either so I’ll give it “just” an…

A

*CLASSIC line on Wikipedia regarding the three pitchman elves jobs:  “opinion varies concerning Crackle’s occupation, but Snap is always portrayed as a baker and Pop as a marching band leader.”  I think Crackle is probably unemployed.  He looks like he spends most of the day sleeping and smoking weed while his more productive brothers make rent money.

**Real dive bars also aren’t featured in a handy dandy “guide” book written by some bitch named Wendy Mitchell.

The French Fry Rankings

I got into a never resolved drunken argument with a buddy last week, and since I have a public forum and he doesn’t, I’ll now get the final, definitive word (in your face, GW!)

My picks for the best french fries by style.

1.  The Curly Fry (seasoned or not)–Clearly the king of french fried pertaters (mmmhhh) the coiled shape produces splendid crevices for oil collection–much like the ruffled potato chip–creating a thicker, crisper, and more flavorful fry.  Coated with a flawless blend of hot spicy seasonings only makes these more sublime.  Throw in a cheese or mayonnaise based dipping sauce, and the seasoned curly becomes a work of art, though I will admit that the curly is not the sturdiest for the actual act of dipping.

2.  The Fresh Cut Fry–A much underrated fry that people rarely ask for by name yet are always excited to see on their plate, these are the most often served fry variant at finer pubs and burger joints or places that actually have chefs.  The smoky potato skin still remaining on the fry itself, for some reason these just seem fresher, even healthier, perhaps even fancy foreign (Belgian pomme frites).

3.  The Waffle Fry (seasoned or not), aka the Criss Cut Fry–The most varying in quality of any fry mentioned on this list, this style can be absolutely sublime or disgustingly terrible.  It all depends on how hot they are and how correctly fried they are.  Whereas most fries remain similar in taste as they cool, the waffle fry becomes less and less edible in a ridiculously quick pace.  These demand going straight from the hot deep fryer into your face within minutes, ignore your burger as there’s no time to spare.  Likewise, sometimes the waffle design’s countless crevices, if not monitored properly, collect so much oil and seasonings that it becomes a misshapen hockey puck of breaded yuckiness.  Another great fry for dipping what with its very sturdy design, the only problem arises when the idiotic restaurant presents you with ketchup or sauce in a tub with too small of radius to actually cram a fry into.

4.  The Shoe String Fry–The style of fry served by basically all fast food restaurants, these are rarely not good.  Simple, abundantly greasy and salty, what’s not to love?  They won’t blow you away, but never will they disappoint either.

5.  The Potato Wedge–A rarely utilized fry variant, this often seasoned style is always crispy on the outside and full of flavor.  Problems arise when undercooked, though this style rarely is.

6.  The Sweet Potato Fry–Another hit or miss fry style, at its best this variant is a nice, delicious change of pace.  At its worst, it’s still a french fry packed with fucking vitamins.  Seriously.  B6, C, and beta-carotene.  The biggest issue with this style is that it absolutely demands a dipping sauce while seeming to cool much quicker than normal potato fries.

7.  The Crinkle Cut Fry–The retarded cousin to the curly fry, I’m not sure if these accordion shaped monstrosities are actually served at a single restaurant in the world.  They seem to be solely owned by the frozen food conglomerates of the world.  In theory, these fries should work due to my aforementioned mention of the creviced collection areas as brilliantly employed by curly fries, waffle fries, and ruffled potato chips, but in this instance it simply doesn’t come together.  Perhaps because they are always prepared by your drunk uncle at a family BBQ and, of course, without the usage of a deep fryer.  Perpetually soggy, undercooked, and under-salted, these suck fries evoke memories of elementary school cafeteria meals.

8. The Steak Fry–BY FAR the worst fry variant, if I see this as a “comes-with-a-side-of” on a menu, I always ask for a swap to onion rings, tater tots, hell, even fruit salad.  Never cooked properly, steak fries are like tiny, skinless baked potatoes.  Each bite yields far too much chalky, flavorless potato interior and far too little fried grease.  You know why we eat baked potatoes slathered with butter and sour cream and shredded cheese and bacon bits?  Because a potato by itself kinda fucking sucks.  And so do steak fries, arguably the only french fry that no one is excited to get, the only french fry left standing on a plate at the end of a meal as none of your friends will even “help” you finish your order.

So that’s my list.  What’s your order of styles?  Did I miss any variants?

The funniest thing is, I think I kinda prefer fresh, greasy onion rings over all of the above.

Ale to the Chief

8.75% from a bomber

My friend Derek hooked me up with this special release from the Colorado brewer commemorating the recent Presidential election (Did I miss that one?  Who won?).  Citrusy with an abundance of cascade hops and honey malt which gave it a nice creamy sweetness which truly make this beer exemplary.  I tell you, just a half year ago I would have told you that Avery is nothing more than a mid-level brewery based on what I had imbibed from them, but lately–what with Maharaja, their Russian River collaberation, and especially Mephistopheles’ Stout–they have absolutely been knocking it out of the fucking park.  What a sublime beermaker.

A-

Here’s what the beer’s faux-parchment label read:

“Ale to the Chief! We the Brewers of Avery Brewing Company, in order to form a more perfect ale, require new leadership that can liberate us from our quagmires in foreign lands; embrace environmentally sound energy alternatives to imported oil; heal our ailing healthcare system; free us from tyrannical debt and resurrect the collapsing dollar. We hereby pledge to provide him with an ample amount of our Presidential Pale Ale to support in the struggle for the aforementioned goals! Hail to the New Chief!”

My Super Sweet Sixteen (Not Featuring Annoying Little Twats*)

I went to the college with the best sports journalism program in the nation, but I never had any interest in the industry.  Nevertheless, my outsized ego still leads me to believe I’m a better analyst that any one in the field.  And, being that sports is one of my great passions, it’s about time I occasionally discuss them on The Vice Blog.

My breakdown of the upcoming weekend and the tournament in general as it’s the only thing on my mind right now.

WEST

Much like their insanely talented 2005 team that got upset by George Mason, I thought this year’s UConn squad simply didn’t have “it.”  Now, that’s not the most rigorous or intellectual of analysis, but sometimes these indescribable things just stand out:  a seeming lack of heart, a seeming lack of interest, a clear lack of a coach that isn’t a huge fucking asshole.  More specifically, I thought the injury to Jerome Dyson deprived UConn of their best non-AJ Price outside shooting threat and halfcourt player.  Then, when Calhoun missed their 1st round game with a mystery ailment (a brutal case of crabs?), I was sure UConn’s team was not long for this tourney.  Instead, they’ve been the most dominant squad of the first two rounds and should have no problem dispatching with Purdue despite the manly-cocktail-named team being well-coached by Matt Painter and featuring a solid back line with Hummel and Johnson.

In the region’s other game, every one will be taking Memphis, but recall that Mizzou will be the first “decent” team they have played since squeaking by mediocre Tennessee (can you be “decent” and “mediocre” in the same sentence?) in late January and the first truly good team they have played since losing to Syracuse in late December.  Memphis has arguably the best defense still in the tournament–I prefer Louisville or Team Thabeet–and also one of the best lead guards in Tyreke Evans, but I think the major conference Tigers not coached by a weasely cheater will prevail due to their ability to dictate the tempo and get a lot of transition buckets while lacking the turnovers that are crucial to poor-shooting Memphis’s game.

UConn will take Missouri down in the Elite Eight as the Tigers’s solid bigs in DeMarre Carroll and Leo Lyons will face bigger and better players in Hasheem Thabeet and Jeff Adrien.

UCONN

EAST

My pre-tournament favorite, I thought this was surely the year Pitt wouldn’t choke what with the second most dominant center in the tournament in DeJuan Blair, a great veteran point guard in Levance Fields, and a top-notch athletic swing in Sam Young.  This would be the year they’d finally beat a team better than a six-seed, the year they’d finally advance past the Sweet Sixteen–and admittedly they obviously still have the chance–but I’ve never seen a #1 team look so lackluster in the first two rounds.  Nevertheless, they should be able to slip by Xavier in a very low-scoring defensive bore-fest.

Nova/Duke will be a fascinating game as both teams play similar multi-guard, dribble-drive, kick-for-the-three offenses.  Nova has the vastly superior athletes–not to mention a mid-range threat in Dante Cunningham–but Duke pays the refs, so this one has to be a toss-up.  Jay Wright is one of the finest coaches in the game and should be able to get by a cryin’ and cursin’ Coach K.  (By the way, any one notice Krzyzewski saying a silent prayer before Duke’s matchup with Texas?  Weird.  I wonder who he was praying too, I thought he already sold his soul.)

In a rematch from earlier this year cheaply played at the Spectrum so that the Wildcats would be allowed to play in Philadelphia in the first two rounds, I again think the better coached, better skilled, less grabby Nova will take out Pitt as the Panthers struggle to match them score-for-score.

VILLANOVA

I’ll be back tomorrow with my analysis of the Midwest and South regions and how embarrassing CBS’s coverage truly is.

Sierra Nevada Torpedo

7.2% ABV

Sierra Nevada’s first new and regular release since the company began in 1980, I was stoked to try this “extra” IPA.  And it was pretty solid.  Citrusy with mild hops and a thinness and smoothness which made surprised at the ABV.  Drinks like a single IPA which I suppose can be a good thing.  Ultimately, I found it not even as tasty as their iconic Celebration.  I guess you got to admire Sierra Nevada for not trying to go “extreme” like all the other breweries are going nowadays.  Unfortunately, I like extreme.  I like hop bombs that numb my tongue.  Still, it’s refreshing to know I can find this in most every single bodega and deli in my neighborhood so now, even in a pinch, at any hour, walking just a block or two, I will always be able to get a decent IPA.

A-/B+

*Save Greg Paulus.

6.9% ABV from a bomber

My Lesbian Wingman

We were hitting it off amazingly.  We agreed on everything, had the same likes, and, more importantly, the same hates.  The same ideals, beliefs, hopes, dreams, and favorite songs.  We were soon inappropriately dancing dirty in the stuffy pub.  Then even more inappropriately groping and making out in a corner booth.

Then, she told me she was a lesbian.

It was Sunday night and I had been drinking for twelve straight hours.

The day began early with some brunch, beers, and college hoops.  I enjoyed Stone’s Cali-Belgique belgian IPA, a beer I’d been searching for forever due to my immense love for Stone but which I’d eventually become disinterested in as it continued to get middling reviews.  I shouldn’t have been as it is another stellar Stone offering.  Gorgeous yeast aroma with a similar creamy taste, just a hint of citrusness and hops.  I have no idea why this beer has gotten such lackluster reviews as it is absolutely delicious.

As darkness overcame the city, my friend and I headed to the Gramercy area for a charity benefit for another, older friend.  There, as drunken fortysomethings mingled, my friend and I polished off some of the best sliders in the town.

After scarfing down enough appetizers to sate an offensive line, we set our sights on some women, specifically a troika at the booth adjacent to our’s.  I began running the numbers in my head, making prisoner’s dilemma (seducer’s dilemma?) calculations on which of the three to go after, throwing all the variables into my algorithm:  best looking, most interesting, the one I have the best rapport with, drunkest, most apparently transgressive, and countless other factors you have probably never even considered.

I couldn’t help but be enraptured by the second best looking of the three, a 4′11″ fireball named Rebecca.  Though she was doing the least talking, she had a mischievous look on her face, a scheming glint in her eye, that made me reckon we would soon be friends.  However, my finely tuned gaydar* was blipping a little, a fact I shouldn’t have ignored though instead quickly dismissed in my drunken state.  And, the mere fact that the energy between us was palpable seemed to tell me all I needed to know.

I slid into the booth beside Rebecca and we began to play a little game of “Do you like to?”

Do you like to get drunk and belligerent?

Do you like to be the center of attention?

Do you like to mock morons and castigate idiots?

Do you like to throw pint glasses?

Do you like to get thrown out of bars?

Do you like to carve your own hilarious path through life?

She liked all these things!  In fact, she liked all of these things far more than even I did.  She was my doppelganger, and being a clinical narcissist, I was obviously in love with this hyper-aggressive dynamo.

“Rebecca, do you want to be the Bonnie to my Clyde?  We’ll lay waste to this island, going from bar to bar like dangerously bibulous satyrs, throwing alcohol down our gullets and wreaking havoc on the fools in this town.”

She noted that she had never seen the movie** but got the reference and enthusiastically agreed.  I was incredibly excited.

I took off the hat I’d been wearing all day to reveal an epic case of hat hair.  Rebecca told me I looked like Robert Smith of The Cure.  I’m happy-go-lucky but I still love The Cure and grabbed Rebecca’s arm, taking her to the jukebox where we ordered up some “Just Like Heaven.”  Soon, Rebecca was showing me, showing me, showing me some lascivious tricks in the corner of the bar.  We were groping, fondling, kissing, and disgusting our friends.

We sat back down in the booth were she continued to kiss me and flatter me.  And, then she stopped and retracted.  She grabbed both my hands, looked me solemnly in the eyes, and…

“I am so sorry, Aaron.”

For what?

“I think you’re great, but I’ve given you the wrong impression…”

Histrionic pause like we’re in a soap opera.

“I’m a lesbian.  I’m so sorry.”

Sorry?!  I was ecstatic.

I told her she had nothing to apologize, this was great!  I instantaneously had had an Archimedes “Eureka!” moment and seen the future.  My future.  Our future.  On the spot I improvised a plan whereas she would be my lesbian wingman and me visa-versa.  We would travel from bar to bar, seducing women from all ends of the spectrum, sometimes for threesomes, sometimes just to help each other out.  It was a brilliant plan, a devious plan, and she loved it.  I thought new ground was for sure being broken and so did she.

Having great male wingmen is one thing, but they still come with issues, jealousy, competition, and too much testerone.  An opposite sex, opposite persuasioned wingman would negate those errors.

Rebecca and I decided to meet again to fully hatch our plans.  However, though we did get together a few other times, the partnership never fully came to fruition, was never full realized or put into action.

But I still love the concept.  And I still want a lesbian wingman.  So I’m now accepting application to be mine.  Please send your resumes and headshots to theviceblog [at] gmail.com.  Please, no fucking PDFs.

A-

*I don’t know why I have such good gaydar.  Perhaps it’s due to living in Manhattan or maybe I’m just a bigot who likes to stereotype people.

**She should see the movie.  It still stands as one of the most significant contributions to 20th century film.

5.9% ABV from a grrrrrrrrrrowler

Google:  the geek squad sucks

Results 1 - 10 of about 120,000 for the geek squad sucks. (0.23 seconds)

Google:  fuck the geek squad

Results 1 - 10 of about 58,900 for fuck the geek squad. (0.19 seconds)

Google:  the geek squad can fellate my giant circumcised jew-cock

No results found for “the geek squad can fellate my giant circumcised jew-cock”.

Well then let me be the first to add that phrase to the internet and get it search engine filed.  Should help my SEO among angry Jews with computer problems.

They are the Geek Squad and, yes, they are admittedly, clearly, geeks, but I’m not sure that is even the most apropos name for these miscreants:

The Wispy Upper Lip Hair Squad?

The Foul Body Odor Squad?

The Asocial Pedant Squad?

The Virgins Til I Angrily Bugger Them Squad???

Am I being hyperbolically harsh?  No, I don’t think.  Because I would go so far as to say that–ignoring public employees such as those that work at the USPS, the DMV, for the MTA, and in the House of Representatives–Geek Squad employees are the worst workers the American private sector has to offer above such other anti-luminaries as Time Warner customer services reps, Poughkeepsie Dunkin Donut employees, and New York Knickerbockers.

My computer has the most minor of problems right now as the back plug-in has been jostled a bit through everyday wear and tear and now I can no longer keep my power supply in and, in fact, the battery has completely drained, rendering my computer a $1000 piece of cheap plastic and metal that can’t be used.  Now I’m no expert, but I figured fixing this would be quick, cheap, and easy.  No, sir.  Not when the fucking Geek Squad is involved.

Firstly, I do all my errands in the middle of weekdays so I don’t have to deal with buffoons.  It’s interesting, for such a committed Manhattanite, I absolutely detest dealing with other human beings that aren’t bartenders and avoid them all costs, ordering everything I buy off the internet and only dealing with real folks in the most dire of circumstance.  Well, as I predicted, Best Buy was dead as disco at 2 in the afternoon on a Tuesday and I found only one other person in front of me in the Geek Squad line.

45 minutes later I was still behind this hipster doofus who was in an Earl Weaver/umpire shouting match, a typical scene at Geek Squad HQ.  Meanwhile, I could count at least a dozen employees in visual sight, at least half of them other Geek Squad workers, sitting in the back, lounging, reading Wizard magazine, having some homoerotic grab ass.  With several other registers and countless counter space available to help me you’d think one might hop to, but nope, not how the Geek Squad works.  To much WoW strategy to discuss.  And seemingly no upper management to yell at the lower-level staff.

I finally get to the front of the line and am greeted by a stereotypical Squad member.  Doughy enough to sell biscuits in a tube, short sleeved dress shirt with visible underarm yellowing, black tie covered in Quizno’s mystery sauce, greasy hair matted to his head, and some beady eyes staring at me in contempt behind giant Harry Carey goggles.

At this point, no matter what the problem with your computer, no matter how large or small, you will enter a standard operating procedure between you and the Geek Squader in which he will behave in the follow steps.

Step One:  Truculently greet you

No “Hello, sir”–no “sir” or “ma’am” at all for that matter–no “How can I help you?,” “What seems to be the problem?,” or “How are you?”  No, you will be greeted with an eye roll and perhaps a grunt.  Or, even worse, you will have to clear your throat, bang on the counter, or simply say, “Can I get some fucking help?!” to get the Geek to even look up at you.

Step Two:  Dismiss your problems

I briefly explained my problem and he quickly dismissed me, acting as if I clearly broke my laptop.

“Do you ever carry your laptop around?”

Yes, of course, it’s a laptop.  That’s like asking me if I drive my car.

“Do you every type on it on your lap?  Or in a coffee shop or something?”

Again, yes, of course, it’s a motherfucking laptop.

“Well then, the cord probably got banged up due to your aggressiveness with it while moving it around.”

“Aggressiveness?!”  Ha.  The only way I could have been less aggressive with my computer in question would have been to never take it out of the box.

Step three:  Act like you’re a fool that knows far less about computer than them.  Offer expensive fix.

This step involves the Geek doing a lot of scoffing, a lot of supercilious smirking, and a lot of upturned palms “Whadaya want me to do about it?”s.  Then, they suggest you pay approx. $500 to have it fixed.

Step four:  Don’t even test out their theories on what is wrong.  Offer expensive fix.

My Geek looked at my laptop for about a millisecond before saying, yeah, it’s the plug-in that’s broken.  That’ll cost you an absurd amount.

But how could he know all this in a millisecond?!

Step five:  Begrudgingly test when you yell at them because you are far bigger than them and could give them a wedgie

I was furious at how quickly he examined my laptop, how he tried to throw around computer jargon and argot that he thought I might not know in order to make me cower and completely allow my fate to be settled by him.  I mean, look, I spent my youth playing sports and being popular, but I’m not a retard, I know a thing or two about computers.  “Could you at least test a few things out and confirm for me what is probably wrong with it?”

With a huff and a puff…

Step 5b.  Pull out universal power adapter.

This is the Geek squads’ one go-to move.  In fact, it’s the only fucking move they have.  You know why?!  Cause they don’t know how to fucking do anything related to computer aside from wasting your goddamn time.  So they’ll reach under the counter, pull out a giant bag of widgets, look for the one that matches your device’s plug-in, then hook it up to the universal adapter and plug you in.

And, you know what…?

Step six:  Are now somewhat confused about what is wrong.  Problem is ambiguous.  Offer expensive fix.

Their earlier dismissiveness is now proven wrong because they are fucking wrong.  In fact, they are now as confused about your computer’s problem(s) as you are.  In fact, they won’t be able to fix it in the actual Best Buy you currently stand in.  But they never act like they are so inferior that they can’t fix a simple computer, oh no, they continue to act rude and superior to you.

Step seven:  Send in to shop.

What is the point of the fucking Geek Squad if they can’t fix shit?!??!  I’ve constantly gone to the Geek Squad with some of the most minor computer problems ever–some of which I later went home, Googled the problem myself, and then with nothing more than a pair of needle-nose pliers, perhaps another tool, fixed the computer myself–and never once has the employee said, “Sure, we’ll have this fixed in an hour.  Go look through some DVDs and video games and we’ll page you when we’re finished.”

Nope.  Getting a computer “fixed” by the Geek squad always involves them charging you money so that they can mail it to the manufacturer so that the manufacturer can spend several weeks fixing it themselves before mailing it back to the Geek Squad.  Fuck the Geek Squad.  Save yourself some time, cut out the middle man, assume the Geek Squad can’t fix shit, and just mail it to the manufacturer yourself.

Step eight:  Go back to reading Wizard magazine

The Geek Squad exists as nothing more than gatekeepers to misery.  Timewasters of the highest order.  There is no point in using them unless you need your ire greatly raised.

Well, now I know.

I was so fucking heated after my futile foray with the Geek Squad that I needed beer, post-haste.  Luckily, The Captain had literally shipped me a fresh and full sealed growler of Masala Mama, to make up for the less-than-fresh attempt we propagated last time.  Beautiful.  Fragrant.  Flawless hops bitterness.  One of the best single IPAs I’ve ever had just below DFH 60 Minute and one of the great session beers of all time.  Not sure it deserves its lofty place on the Best of BA list–I reserve best beer in the world status for bigger asskickers–but it is truly a great beer.

So here I am, computerless, forced to type my hilarious Vice Blog entries using t9 on my mobile phone–seriously–or during the rare chances I can borrow my fuck buddy’s computer when she isn’t playing Scramble on Facebook.*  Alas, it is not the easiest way to write.

Oh well, I got a new laptop being shipped to me right now.  I ordered it online.  I’m never dealing with humans again.   Any one want to buy another laptop that can’t be turned on?

A

*I’ve always hated the word “fuck buddy.”  So childish, so lame, so crass, so unnecessarily profane.  Can’t we come up with something better, people?  Fornicating friends, bangin’ buddies, intercourse pals, coitus companions, copulation cronies, screwing sidekicks, intimate intimates…?  I like the elegance of the lattermost, personally.

10% ABV

“He was a man who used vices to drain poisons out of his body rather than to saturate it.”  Mario Puzo, The Last Don

Yesterday I woke up alone at 4:00 in the afternoon.  I still had all my possessions on me.  I hadn’t lost my cell phone, my wallet, even my dignity.  This was quite astonishing as the night before had been my 30th birthday party and, you see, I am quite famous for losing all of the aforementioned–most notably the latter–on my big day.  Why, most of my birthday party stories are too sordid, perverse, and transgressive for even me to tell.  Don’t get me wrong, if I told some of these tales they would instantly catapult to the top of my “best of” section but I guess even I have limits.

I started Saturday afternoon with a few while still at home, eager to try a fresh bottle of HopSlam that Dirtyspeed over at Friday Night Beer had recently sent me.   Currently the 26th “best” beer on planet earth, I found it deserves all the acclaim it gets as it is truly sublime.  A state-of-the-art DIPA with added honey notes that really allows it to stand apart from most of the other great DIPAs on the market.  A terrific bitter hoppiness yet still sweet due to the honey giving it barley wine characteristics somewhat.  Smooth and creamy, boozy enough but damn drinkable, and with a nice mouthfeel, I absolutely loved this beer and immediately wished I had more.  It’s fairly limited so if you have any friends in the states that stock Bell’s, implore them to send you some.

My party was held at Blind Tiger Ale House, considered by many to be the best beer bar in America.  We had a great time but nothing particularly “blog-worthy” occurred which I think may have disappointed some who expected utter lunacy.  That’s fine, though, you can’t force craziness.  You can’t force fun.  You can only go out, have some drinks, be happy, and be social.  And we were, and I had a great time. From what I recall.

I suppose the most interesting thing at my party was that diverse friends of mine got to collude with each other.  I run in many different circles that rarely mix so for one of the few–if not first–times various friends got to meet each other.  And the topic most discussed was, “Is ____ Vice Blog story real?”

So Freddie was asked if my 2nd worst hook-up story was really Kosher.  Sadly it is.  He confirmed the BBW tale as well.

People inquired of Stanton if Jimmy was truly a real person.  Surely–surely!–he can’t be.  Oh, but he is, Stanton confirmed.  He likewise detailed how fucked-up Queens is.

Several participants in the Hooker Lottery showed, almost six years exactly after that stunning event.

And even my friend King Otto–who was secretly filming the festivities using a nerdy spy pen–got to update his rarely-updated blog which makes fun of me*.

I had a great boozy time and my friends even reminded me of some other funny stories from our past that I should and will write up very soon.

I was still so hungover by Super Bowl time that I sat home by myself watching the game and drinking diet soda.  Perhaps the first sober Super Bowl I’ve had since John Elway was playing.

A

*Ladies, he’s single.  E-mail me your headshots if you’re interested and I’ll pass them onto the King.

9% ABV from a bomber

That Guy

“A co-worker of mine is coming out to meet us.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“No.  It isn’t.  He’s a huge tool.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“I guarantee it won’t.  Just you wait.”

“Then why’d you invite him?”

“I didn’t.  Jimmy invited himself.”

Stanton and I were splitting a bomber of the glorious Houblon Chouffe before we headed out on the town.  A Belgian IPA somewhat similar to the best of the style our country has to offer.  Very hoppy with a nice bite, and a frothiness like an Orange Julius.  Smooth, creamy, and delicious.

Afterward, we headed to a no-frills midtown pub to further wet our whistles.  When it’s just us two, Stanton and I are pretty low-key bar flies, quietly tippling pint after pint while discussing the bullshit of the world.  Our peace was about to be destroyed by a force of nature the likes of which I had never seen before.

“Why don’t you pussies have a real drink?”

I turned to see a giant mouth of smiling horse teeth.  Jimmy’s.  His chompers looked like they may have been wooden or, at the least, synthetic.  Shiny, streamlined like the chrome of a ‘64 Olds, an almost ultraviolet tint like those cool lamps some bars have to see a hidden stamp on your hand.  He arrived dressed to the…well what’s the opposite of “the nines?”  A silk dress shirt adorned with a lot of purples and forest greens swirling together in a vomitous array.   The top rakishly unbuttoned down to his sternum displaying a ghostly pale bird chest paradoxically with flappy man boobs and curlicues of chest hair more befitting the pubis.  The shirt was tautly tucked into navy blue chinos from either Dockers or Haggar.  They were clearly “wrinkle-free” and “stain-free” if those advertisements are to be believed.  A braided belt, natch.  Cheap DSW shoe warehouse wingtips so scuffed they looked like he had played a full rugby season in them.  And his hair do, oh his hair do.  Coarse black wires “butt-parted” down the middle and Aquanetted firmly to his skull, the around-the-ears and neck area shaved to the follicle, making Jimmy look like a moron wearing a retard hair helmet.

“Hey Jimmy, this is Aaron.”

“Nice to meet you dude, man there are no bitches in this place at all!  Total sausage fest!  Total sausage, huh dude?”

As Jimmy hopped and bopped like a coked-out “Roxbury Guy,” checking out the scene, I askanced my eyes toward Stanton.  He was rolling his.

“Where’s the fucking bartender?  I need to get my drink on.”

Jimmy was one of those guys that can’t even be caricatured.  Their core, their mere existence, is one of satire.  Ever see a movie that has a douchebag tool stock character?  And you go, “Yeah, true, that character was funny, but he wasn’t real!  People like that don’t really exist.”  Oh yes they do, friend-o.  They are Jimmy, a one man cottage industry of “Did he really say that?” catch phrases you will be repeating the rest of your life.

The attractive and busty female bartender came over to serve Jimmy.  He did a histrionic eye-pop ogle at her cleavage before holding out his hand, taking her’s, and doing a cringe-worthy kiss on the back of it.

“Hey sweetheart, I’m Jimmy, good to meetcha.  My pussy friends are done drinking beer for the night.  We want some ‘real’ drinks.  Three rum and Cokes.  Easy on the Coke, ha ha, catch my drift?”

The bartender scooted away biting her tongue to try and not laugh. This was getting borderline embarrassing as you are nothing if not the company you keep, but Jimmy had barely scratched the surface.  As she returned with the $18 round Jimmy snapped a twenty on the bar, firmly looking her in the eyes as if he had given her a hyoooooge tip.

“And keep ‘em coming, toots.”

Jimmy turned to us.

“Let’s shoot some stick.”

“Stick?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes like “Who are these fucking hayseeds that don’t know this popular 21st century argot?”

“Pool?  Billiards?”

“Oh, I guess.  I don’t really like pool that much but whatev–”

“Great.”

Jimmy was already at the table furiously chalking his cue as if he knew what he was doing.  He obviously didn’t as upon finishing the chalking he “blew out” the point as if he was the Sundance Kid cooling down his six-shooter, a sure sign of an amateur pool shark.

“What should we play boys?  Eight ball?  Nine ball?  Straight?  One pocket?  Bank?  Three-rail?”

“I think eight ball will be fine.”

“Ha.  Amateurs.  OK, that’s cool.  I usually play straight but this table looks a little…”

Jimmy put his stick on the table and rolled it, keeping his eye at table level like a jeweler examining a diamond.

“Yeah, this table’s a little crooked and certainly not tournament size, but, hey, play with what you got.  So, wanna make it interesting?”

“Sure.”‘

Stanton pulled out his wallet, “Dollar a ball, Five a game?”

Jimmy started uproariously laughing.  “I said ‘interesting.’  I was thinking more like…”

He did a Dr. Evil smirk.

“Five thousand dollars.”

Stanton and I started cracking up.

“Oh, you guys can’t afford that?  Pathetic.”

Stanton glared at Jimmy, “And you can?  You have the exact same job as me.  And actually, I know you make even less than me.”

“I invest well and I’m a good gambler, what can I say?  Shit, I just lost $100,000 last weekend playing darts with Bon Jovi in AC.  No big deal.  You win some you lose some.  I’m up like…”

He stared at the ceiling, “counting” in his head.

“…half a mill for the year.”

Stanton and I burst into even heartier laughter.  Jimmy didn’t know he was being mocked.  The game got under way at the dollar-a-ball bet and I won.  I’m not good at pool but Jimmy was terrible.  Buffoonishly bad.  After losing, Jimmy started acting like John McEnroe after a bad line call, throwing shit and raising a ruckus.  He even took his cue and snapped it over his knee, splitting it in two which I must admit was actually kinda impressive.  At the time though I was pissed because I like the bar we were in and if any one had saw it we were clearly going to get 86ed for life.

Jimmy wasn’t concerned though as he cavalierly opened the back door and threw the two cue pieces into the alley.  We headed back to the bar where amazingly no one had noticed the scene at the pool table.

“Let’s have some music.”

Jimmy fumbled in his pocket, coming up empty.

“Any one got some quarters?”

We were now openly mocking Jimmy.  “The man with ‘half a mil’ in the bank doesn’t have a measly quarter?”

“First of all, I don’t have ‘half a mil’ in net worth, it’s actually a ton more than that.  Most of my money is tied up in various investments.  What’s your guy’s portfolios look like?  I bet you don’t own any stock at all, do you?  Time to grow up, fellas.”

I handed Jimmy a few quarters and he headed to the juke box giving Stanton and I time to collude.

“Is that guy for fucking real?”

Stanton could only shake his head, so humiliated.

“Imagine working ten hours a day with him.”

“MMMMMMMMMMMMMYYY name is Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid Rock!”

We turned to see Jimmy furiously air-guitaring after having just ordered Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba.”  It was such an obvious order, such a predictable music selection, Jimmy was not only meeting all my expectations but he was exceeding them.  I was in awe at the mere magnitude of his magnificent foolishness.

He air-guitar boot-scooted around the bar, using moves akin to those of Marty McFly when he played the Enchantment Under the Sea dance.  By now, the whole bar was staring at Jimmy as he tried to get women to rise from their seats and dance with him.  None obliged.

Afterward, Jimmy returned to his seat between me and Stanton, the two of us too stupefied to even speak.

“We got to kick this party up a notch, boys.  I’m gonna buy a shot for every female in the bar.  Hey!”

Jimmy started snapping his fingers at the bartender like he was Frank Sinatra summoning his minions.

I looked at Stanton, our eyes both saying, “He’s not really gonna do this is he?”

The bartender arrived.  “I’d like to buy a drink for every lady in the bar.”

The bartender laughed.  “Seriously?”

“Absolutely.  ‘Ladies choice.’  Whatever they like.  Price is not an issue.”

“Ooooooookay, but it could get expensive.”

Jimmy reached in his back pocket and like a swashbuckler unsheaths his sword, he whipped out an American Express Blue.*

“I assume you take American Express…Blue?”

The bartender eyeballed a head count of the women in the bar.  Stanton and I did too.  We counted about fifty.  Average drink six bucks, this was gonna run Jimmy a lot.

As the bartender sucked it up and walked around the bar explaining to every woman in attendance–most of whom were with men of course–what was going on, Jimmy stood self-satisfied with his hands on his hips like Superman, smiling his big smile as he bobbed his head to the music, swiveling around to examine the scene around him.

“I’m gonna have to fight off the pussy with a stick after this!”

If only we could have heard the conversation the bartender was having with each woman.  I’d imagine it went something like this:

“See over my shoulder, that ugly goofball with the big teeth?  Yeah?  Well, this may sound weird but he wants to buy you a drink.  Oh, no, he’s not hitting on you, not exactly, he’s buying a drink for every female here from that old lady in the corner to even all the betrothed.”

After each lengthy explanation you could see the look in the girls’ eyes, a look of confusion followed by a shrug and a “Well, I guess I have nothing to lose” nod of agreement.  Beers, vodka tonics, red wines, and shots started quickly being dispensed for all.

I was becoming curious.  “Jimmy, are you going to like stand on the bar and toast all the women simultaneously once they have their drinks?  Shouldn’t you at least make your presence known to all?”

Jimmy snorted at me with disdain.  “Get real.  Only a douchebag would do that.”

He gave an over the shoulder “Do you believe this guy” thumb point at me, thinking Stanton was clearly in his corner.

By now every woman had her drink and nothing had happened.  Nothing.  Jimmy was still bobbing his head, readying his stick to fight off the pussy with.  Finally after like ten minutes an average woman came over.

“Are you the guy that bought all the drinks?”

Jimmy smiled coyly and winked at her.

“Oh.  Well thanks.  That was nice.”

She left the bar with her boyfriend.

And that was it.  The only girl that even spoke to him.

The bartender tapped Jimmy on his shoulder and handed him the leatherbound bill folder.  He flapped it open:  $351.

For just a split second I saw Jimmy’s eyes bulge, his brow sweat, and his mandible fall to the floor.  But he quickly recouped and dismissively tacked on a $100 tip and celebrity scribble of an autograph.

“Big deal.  I spend that much in five minutes when I’m partying in Vegas.”

You could see that he clearly didn’t expect to spend that much money and probably didn’t even have it.

“This place fucking sucks any ways and the women are ugly bitches.  I’m calling my driver.”

He pulled out a business card for some livery service and punched some numbers into his cell.

“Takes me all the way home to Clifton for only ten bucks.”

And ten minutes later Jimmy was gone.  A hurricane of hilarity.  It had felt like only ten minutes but he had actually been in my life for about three hours.  I will never forget meeting him.  How many people can you say that about?

Stanton told me the next day that–en route to his mother’s house in Clifton where he still lives–Jimmy threw up in “his” driver’s car.  Oh, and was charged $75.

A

*No annual fee, not particularly hard to own if you are older than, say, 18 years of age.

Bachelor Tip:  Don’t be a tool, get bar stools that exude subtle confidence and simple modern design.

This helpful hint is provided by All Barstools.