Friday I'm In Love
I did something tonight that I've wanted to do for a long time.
It's a Friday night in Hoboken and I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, seriously, nothing. Nuh-thing. None of my roommates are around, and all of my immediate friends are either at holiday parties, are out of town, or are just plain MIA. Clearly, tonight is going to be about me and only me.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you. Most people would classify my plight as a somewhat sad or pathetic situation, but I'm actually fairly cool with it. Don't confuse things, I don't want to make this a regular happening...I'm pretty sure too many of these nights made Jeffrey Dahmer eat people. But every few weeks or so, I can most certainly deal with hanging out in the apartment chillin' OG-style.
Tonight was different however. I didn't have a problem being on my own so much, but I still did want to go out. So after careful thought I made a decision that I had contemplated many times before, but never had the guts (or will power) to go through with.
I was going to go out...by myself.
Listen, I don't know if this is something that people do a lot. It probably is. I mean, I've seen random dudes at bars just chillin' on their own with a Budweiser or whatever before, so I know I'm not creating cold fusion or anything. That said, I've typically viewed said random Budweiser dudes as tragic figures in a way, so I rather not be grouped into that bracket thank-you-very-much. I'm more the guy who was perfectly content with hanging out by himself, but wanted to check out the local scene. Let the record show that not even I buy what I just typed, but we're going to roll with it anyway.
After watching MTV Hits for about two hours (Incredibly, I just discovered I had the network after nearly two years in my apartment -- channel 188 for those scoring at home), I hopped in the shower, got dressed and headed out the door at about 11. A one block jaunt brought me to 10th and Willow -- an undersized but spunky establishment best known for serving free chicken wings on Monday nights during the football season (try the barbeque, watch out for the teriyaki). I approached the front entrance where a bouncer was denying some guy in front of me for not having proper identification. When I went to take my driver's license out, he waved me in...always a bit of a bummer. I've officially decided that my leather jacket inexplicably makes me look like I'm 32 years old (I'm 25). That said, I may be ushering it into retirement shortly (either that or I'll keep it in the closet until I'm 33, at which point I'll wear it every day until it disintegrates, presumably sometime in the 2040s. My children will be perpetually embarrassed by my appearance.).
Stone sober, I walked into a bar packed with completely obliterated patrons. People were slobbering all over on the dance floor, spilling their drinks, looking generally disheveled...it was a meat locker. Is that what all bars largely-comprised of 20-somethings looks like? If so, wow. This non-drunk thing is really giving me some perspective.
I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Nine dollars. Nine dollars! Do drinks really cost this much in bars? Dear God...this sober thing is a real eye-opener. So I get my drink and turn towards the...NINE DOLLARS? Did I really just pay nine dollars to buy a gin and tonic in Hoboken? If I can impart one piece of wisdom on you tonight, it's this: The next time you open your wallet or purse after a long night of revelry and incredulously declare to your buddy or girlfriend, "How the hell did I spend (insert gross national product of Belize here) last night?" Well, you bought 6-8 drinks and a round of shots. Simple as that.
So I turn around and try to be as casual as possible. Although I'm a little warm, I purposely keep on the leather jacket because the point of this exercise is not to try to look appealing in an effort to pick up women...that would put me in the Budweiser Dude bracket. Tonight I'm just a dude just chillin' with his T&T. A 32-year-old dude. This isn't so bad after all.
I glance up at the TV on the adjacent wall. The Knicks lost by double digits to the lowly Hawks tonight and they are playing highlights. I see a portly girl across the way looking at me funny, but I'm fairly certain she's a lesbian so I don't make much of it. The deejay plays one of the eight techno/house songs I like. This is a list bookended by Technotronic's 1991 hit "Shake Dat Body" and Da Rude's classic 2001 house anthem, "Sandstorm." There are six more songs of this ilk that I thoroughly enjoy, I don't know their titles, but I know they came out between 1991 and 2001.
ANYWAY, things are going okay at this point. Halfway done with my (nine dollar) drink, I decide to walk the premises. It is during this journey, awkwardly making my way through a crowd of drunken white people getting down to "My Humps," that I realize something. Being completely hammered and being completely sober and alone at a bar produce the exact same outcome for me. When I get completely trashed, I tend to separate from my friends and just kind of walk the Earth like Kung-Fu. I do a lot of observing but very little talking, save for an "Excuse me" or "Move" every four seconds or so. Strange thing. Unfortunately, the walk through the crowd serves to derail my night out, as I see several groups of friends having a great drunken ole time together and suddenly I'm overcome with the feeling that I'm Budweiser Guy. It's time to hit the eject button. I finish my drink, my nine dollar drink, and head towards the exit. The chubby lesbian smiles at me as I walk by, but this love connection must remain dormant -- my night is done.
Tomorrow will be different. I'm meeting some friends in the city for wings and beer to watch football during the day, then I'm going to MSG with a buddy to check out the tepid Knicks, and finally back to a bar in the Boke to close things out. When I see a random Budweiser Guy, I nod at him and lift my drink skyward. He will think I'm gay.
But if all that falls through, there’s always Plan B. In that case, look for the 30-something Irish-looking guy in the leather jacket and introduce yourself. First drink's on him...mixed drink requests will not be honored.
It's a Friday night in Hoboken and I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, seriously, nothing. Nuh-thing. None of my roommates are around, and all of my immediate friends are either at holiday parties, are out of town, or are just plain MIA. Clearly, tonight is going to be about me and only me.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you. Most people would classify my plight as a somewhat sad or pathetic situation, but I'm actually fairly cool with it. Don't confuse things, I don't want to make this a regular happening...I'm pretty sure too many of these nights made Jeffrey Dahmer eat people. But every few weeks or so, I can most certainly deal with hanging out in the apartment chillin' OG-style.
Tonight was different however. I didn't have a problem being on my own so much, but I still did want to go out. So after careful thought I made a decision that I had contemplated many times before, but never had the guts (or will power) to go through with.
I was going to go out...by myself.
Listen, I don't know if this is something that people do a lot. It probably is. I mean, I've seen random dudes at bars just chillin' on their own with a Budweiser or whatever before, so I know I'm not creating cold fusion or anything. That said, I've typically viewed said random Budweiser dudes as tragic figures in a way, so I rather not be grouped into that bracket thank-you-very-much. I'm more the guy who was perfectly content with hanging out by himself, but wanted to check out the local scene. Let the record show that not even I buy what I just typed, but we're going to roll with it anyway.
After watching MTV Hits for about two hours (Incredibly, I just discovered I had the network after nearly two years in my apartment -- channel 188 for those scoring at home), I hopped in the shower, got dressed and headed out the door at about 11. A one block jaunt brought me to 10th and Willow -- an undersized but spunky establishment best known for serving free chicken wings on Monday nights during the football season (try the barbeque, watch out for the teriyaki). I approached the front entrance where a bouncer was denying some guy in front of me for not having proper identification. When I went to take my driver's license out, he waved me in...always a bit of a bummer. I've officially decided that my leather jacket inexplicably makes me look like I'm 32 years old (I'm 25). That said, I may be ushering it into retirement shortly (either that or I'll keep it in the closet until I'm 33, at which point I'll wear it every day until it disintegrates, presumably sometime in the 2040s. My children will be perpetually embarrassed by my appearance.).
Stone sober, I walked into a bar packed with completely obliterated patrons. People were slobbering all over on the dance floor, spilling their drinks, looking generally disheveled...it was a meat locker. Is that what all bars largely-comprised of 20-somethings looks like? If so, wow. This non-drunk thing is really giving me some perspective.
I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Nine dollars. Nine dollars! Do drinks really cost this much in bars? Dear God...this sober thing is a real eye-opener. So I get my drink and turn towards the...NINE DOLLARS? Did I really just pay nine dollars to buy a gin and tonic in Hoboken? If I can impart one piece of wisdom on you tonight, it's this: The next time you open your wallet or purse after a long night of revelry and incredulously declare to your buddy or girlfriend, "How the hell did I spend (insert gross national product of Belize here) last night?" Well, you bought 6-8 drinks and a round of shots. Simple as that.
So I turn around and try to be as casual as possible. Although I'm a little warm, I purposely keep on the leather jacket because the point of this exercise is not to try to look appealing in an effort to pick up women...that would put me in the Budweiser Dude bracket. Tonight I'm just a dude just chillin' with his T&T. A 32-year-old dude. This isn't so bad after all.
I glance up at the TV on the adjacent wall. The Knicks lost by double digits to the lowly Hawks tonight and they are playing highlights. I see a portly girl across the way looking at me funny, but I'm fairly certain she's a lesbian so I don't make much of it. The deejay plays one of the eight techno/house songs I like. This is a list bookended by Technotronic's 1991 hit "Shake Dat Body" and Da Rude's classic 2001 house anthem, "Sandstorm." There are six more songs of this ilk that I thoroughly enjoy, I don't know their titles, but I know they came out between 1991 and 2001.
ANYWAY, things are going okay at this point. Halfway done with my (nine dollar) drink, I decide to walk the premises. It is during this journey, awkwardly making my way through a crowd of drunken white people getting down to "My Humps," that I realize something. Being completely hammered and being completely sober and alone at a bar produce the exact same outcome for me. When I get completely trashed, I tend to separate from my friends and just kind of walk the Earth like Kung-Fu. I do a lot of observing but very little talking, save for an "Excuse me" or "Move" every four seconds or so. Strange thing. Unfortunately, the walk through the crowd serves to derail my night out, as I see several groups of friends having a great drunken ole time together and suddenly I'm overcome with the feeling that I'm Budweiser Guy. It's time to hit the eject button. I finish my drink, my nine dollar drink, and head towards the exit. The chubby lesbian smiles at me as I walk by, but this love connection must remain dormant -- my night is done.
Tomorrow will be different. I'm meeting some friends in the city for wings and beer to watch football during the day, then I'm going to MSG with a buddy to check out the tepid Knicks, and finally back to a bar in the Boke to close things out. When I see a random Budweiser Guy, I nod at him and lift my drink skyward. He will think I'm gay.
But if all that falls through, there’s always Plan B. In that case, look for the 30-something Irish-looking guy in the leather jacket and introduce yourself. First drink's on him...mixed drink requests will not be honored.
posted by Dan Hanzus at 7:57 AM
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