Wedding Zingers

We’ve got this super-huge event coming up soon here at work, so I’ve been super-hugely busy. Sorry for not staying updated. After this weekend I should be free enough to begin really posting in Ernest Saves Christmas.

Anyway, so the lady and I went to this really beautiful wedding on Friday night. Two of my very dear friends were tying the knot and we were lucky enough to be invited. It’s always more fun when it’s not a family wedding, don’t you think? There are no great uncles to worry about getting too drunk, no disapproving cousins to validate your life choices to. Just a mass of friends and strangers wrangled into an open bar with door prizes.

As we were signing the guest book I noticed something. There are really only three or four stock phrases that everyone chooses from. Either something along the line of, “Dear So and So-ette, thank you for letting us share in this moment,” or “May your love continue to grow until the end of time,” or “May you treasure this day forever, blah blah blah.”

Where’s the originality, people?

I find it a little disconcerting, really. I mean here are two people whom you love dearly, they’re getting joined at the legality bone and all you can conjure up is something you read off the back of an appendix surgery-themed Hallmark card.

So with that sentiment in my heart I went to write something fantastic.

I of course drew a blank and ended up writing a mish-mash of the stock phrases in poor handwriting and what seemed to be pidgin English. Hey, screw you, Buddy, it’s a lot of pressure. I realize now that I’m 5,000,000 times more witty when on the other side of a keyboard (which is not saying much since I was in possession of zero wit at the time).

I’ve taken the liberty of creating a few non-traditional wedding guest book phrases that you can memorize for when the time comes. Please to enjoy.

“Thank you so much for inviting us to your Wiccan ceremony. The Goddess dance, while causing me to re-tear my ACL, was riveting both in body and spirit.”

“Here’s to at least several months of unmitigated happiness, ten years of pained silence, regret and painful loathing and then hopefully a revival of your marriage in your sunset years when you guys can throw a great renewal of vows ceremony and start the whole thing all over again. Maybe by then I’ll be able to buy Jim a cyber-stripper, Awesome!”

“Thank you for the drinks and loose women.”

“Thank you for the food and tight men.”

“May your love continue to grow, but not in a cancerous way, because cancer is bad.”

“Thank you for that reading from Corinthians II, it helped me truly understand the vows of marriage in a way I have not understood them since I was 12 and in Bible school.”

“Your fine selection of shrimps and appetizers are truly representative of the special bond of love you two hold. Except for the Capers, who’s idea was that?”

And of course, my personal favorite:

“Is this where I sign up for the silent Auction? $20 for the Mother of the Bride.”

Sounds of Dread #2

This coming weekend I will celebrate the anniversary of my 4th year living in Brooklyn with my roommate, Spoony. Brooklyn’s changed a lot over the years. Most notably would be story of Williamsburg, the once immigrant haven turned local turned hipster trustafarian neighborhood. Where you once saw local butchers, tailors and other businesses you now see health food stores, “concept bars” and wholesale ironic tee-shirt markets.

Thankfully I don’t live in Williamsburg. Well, according to zoning regulations, my building is on the farthest outskirts of this conclave of the simply-trying-too-hard-to-be-different. Where I live is a little rough around the edges, to say the least. Spoons and I made the conscious decision to pay less, have more room and not give a shit that we’re not in a cool neighborhood. It’s paid us back in dividends of late night/early morning parties, bootleg everything, little noise constraints and quite literally a dance floor in the middle of our pad.

Unfortunately, most of our friends don’t share our disdain for the manufactured ambiance and perceived quality of life that these newly gentrified other regions of the city provide. Every time we have a party, planned or not, we have to go through the rigmarole of assuring people that it’s OK to park on our street. That yes, they can take the subway there. Yes, the J,M,Z line is an actual subway and it does run after dark. No, there are not roving gangs in burnt out school buses patrolling Bushwick looking for white women. Etc.

With everyone finally over their stigmas we have a good time, hang out and all is well.

Until today’s Sound of Dread is heard.

The Sound of Dread for October 25th, 2006 is:

The Loud Booming Noise That Probably Isn’t a Gun Shot, But You Definitely Thought It Was for At Least Five Seconds.

Every time I have people over a truck will unfailingly drive over a large metal grate, causing this booming sound. In all reality, it doesn’t actually sound like the thunderclap of a firearm discharging - but I can see on my friends’ faces that they think it was.

It may be slightly dreadful for them to think that there was a gunshot near by… but it’s actually kind of funny watching the pained look of fear turn into questioning and then eventual acceptance that it was just a truck and then finally into guilt at assuming it was a gunshot simply because I live in a poor neighborhood.

That’s priceless.

Victory!

Also, another thing:

My breakfast sandwich guy finally knows my order.

This is a huge thing for me.

We moved our office down here to the financial district some five months ago. I spent those months in anonymity, having to repeat my order every day to the same guy, “Bacon, Egg and Cheese on a toasted everything bagel, please.”

(As an aside, my friends and I decided that “everything bagel” is inaccurate. They should be called “manything bagels.”)

Finally, FINALLY, after all this time I go to tell him what I want, and he’s already got it going on the grill; my bagel already in the toaster. All I get is a head-nod. Like one of those head nods that says, “you have entered the inner circle of bagel patronship, how may I serve you otherwise, mi’lord?”

I LOL’ed.

I’m an idiot. I use that particular acronym far to often.

“How are you doing, lol.”

“Fine! lol.”

I don’t really laugh out loud at anything I see on-line. Usually I stare coldly at the monitor with a look of disdain and contempt for the fun and gaiety that’s happening on the other side. Here in my sterile office under my essence draining fluorescent lights there is very little to laugh out loud to.

Except for pictures of cats with captions!

http://www.knitemare.org/cats/

I was lol-ing so hard to this last night that developed tinnitus, an inner ear infection and slight bladder incontinence.

This post has little to do with anything, other than me wanting to let you all know that I now pee a little whenever I see a funny cat.

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #2: LHTFWA

So here on WordPress there’s this great feature that allows you to see what search strings have drawn people to your site. Last week someone came around looking for, and I quote, “Skills that require licensing.” Good on you, Mr. Like-Minded Individual Sir. Besides jukebox operating there are many such skills that should mandate federal licensing. Which brings me to this week’s offering:

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #2: LHTFWA

That’s short for Learned How To Fucking Walk Already.

New York is literally FULL of sidewalks and guess what? People walk on them. For the most part, very poorly. Too slow, too fast, not straight enough, wrong side, stopping when you should be going, etc. These are the tell-tale signs of the retarded streetwalker.

If people were made to apply for streetwalking permits, this city would be a better place. In the license application below I’ll explain in further detail the very simple process (including a six week Walker’s Ed training program) one would have to go through in order to receive their LHTFWA certificate.

At this point you may be wondering aloud, “Dave, how do I know if I’m a problem streetwalker?”

There are a few signs. First, are you drooling? If yes, wipe your mouth and stand away from the glow box, Corky. Second, when you walk do you routinely hear the gruff, forced exhales of angry people as they try to shuffle around you and your club foot? No?

Most problem walkers fall into one of four categories.

1) The Wobble Walker or Shambling Mound
(If you got that joke meet me on top of a high building for a joint suicide on the grounds of hyper-nerdiness)

The Mound usually weighs in at somewhere between 290 and infinity pounds. Their amorphous globular shape seems to ripple in the wind as they take up the entire street ahead of you. The problem with Wobble Walkers isn’t that they’re fat, it’s that they move from side to side more than they progress further. The overweight are A-OK with me so long as they use that girth to get a little forward momentum going. Not Wobblers though, no they plod about shifting their weight from east to west. They move forward only on account of their legs - sensing an impending plummet to the ground - jutting out to stop the catastrophe like re-inflatable cellulite airbags.

2) The Stopper

Picture this: You’re headed home after a long day of work. Mr. Jenkins was all over you today, “Where’s that report, Collins?” “You need to stay on top of stuff, Collins!” You’re fed up and need your feelings of rage and homicide numbed by the soft blue glow of telemorphine ASAP. Your legs are working on their own, pretending the pavement is the doughy remains of Mr. Jenkins’ knee-strike battered face.

Then, the person right in front of you stops. Usually to either: Take out their cell phone, focus on an already in progress call, rummage through their bag looking for a metrocard or just to appreciate the magnificent beauty that is New York (or sneeze, whatever). 8 times out of 10 this will happen right at the top of a set of stairs. Will Mr. Jenkins’ get a murderous reprieve as you throw your rage against the back of this stuttering interloper?

The stopper is a danger not only to New York citizens but also to him/herself.

3) The Wrong Sider or Japanese Tourist

We get it, where you’re from people keep to the left. Not here. Here we keep to the right. Here we like our beer cold and our panties un-sniffed. This is the rule.

There’s a small subdivision of Wrong Siders who are equally as dangerous: the Clueless Scaffolding Spacehog. These are the people that walk down the middle of the narrow pathways created by work areas. These people too must be taught.

4) The Groupies

Not cool groupies like the ones that take off their shirts at the mere mention of Steely Dan. No, walking Groupies are the tourist twats that link arms and prance down crowded streets at 5:30pm laughing and giggling about what they just bought at Scoop. I don’t even recommend licensing these people. These people should be shot, their bodies stuffed with explosives and then lobbed via trebuchet into the plate glass windows of Scoop stores the city over.

The Licensing Process

Before ticketing for non LHTFWA street operation becomes common, you should look into coming down to the bureau and applying. For most people a simple practical exam will clear you for partial access to 90% of the city’s streets (Special tests will be created for Soho, Times Square and Narrow Subway Platforms).

Failing the test will require you to take the Walker’s Ed course which will focus on stride length, gait and steadiness. Other features include:

* Focus on: Walking and talking on a cell phone at the same time.
* Watching where the fuck you’re going, you asshole, you.
* Getting the hell out of the way when you feel like stopping.
* A four day seminar entitled, “Hey! The Streets Don’t Belong to You, Buddy!”
* With price of enrollment comes the free pamphlet: “Walk/Don’t Walk Signs: What They Really Mean”
* Mastery of the side-by-side/front-and-back conversational streetwalking dynamic formation.

If I were you, I’d get down to our offices now and sign up, the lines are sure to be really long, and you can bet getting there is going to be fucking hazardous.

New York’s Mostest Eligible Bachelors, #35

The other night I was out to dinner with my girlfriend, a friend and his exceedingly pregnant wife. Somewhere between the mojitos, mussels and maybe-a-little-too-deep-for-dinner-conversation we came upon the topic of eligible bachelors.

Well the MOST eligible bachelors to be specific. As it turns out, my girlfriend happens to work at the same company as one of New York Magazine’s Most Eligible bachelors. We joked about it for a while and then started to realize the silliness in such a rating scheme.

The very fact that a guy is put on a “most eligible anything” list is going to guarantee his ineligibility. Think about it: all of a sudden you’re handed this great golden gift of poon PR and you’re expected to just settle down with the perfect woman, who of course scans the yearly listing looking for Mr. Right?

Bullshit. First of all any woman who hunts down a most eligible bachelor from a magazine article has got to have a few screws loose. Secondly, why would a guy give up that kind of exposure? You could make a killing in one night stands just by paying a homeless guy to walk around a bar letting slip that you’re on the MEB list and you’re ensured a night of carefree casual sex.

My biggest issue with those types of lists is the stratospheric tax bracket they represent. Apparently money is a key ingredient to either “most” or “eligible,” because I know a lot of broke “bachelors.” It’s ridiculous! Why is it that only  white collar corporate drones, part-of-the-problem lawyers or corrupt government aides gets all the society props? Do these guys really exhibit any of the qualities that real women look for in long term relationships? Maybe if you’re looking for a house in the Hampton’s and a crippling cocaine habit.

So we decided to come up with our very own list. A list of real men, real single men that have what real women want. Sure they may not work in the most glamorous fields, but they’d be good for you and your potential children.

Now, without further ado I bring you, Miss(ed) Manners’ New York’s Mostest Eligible Bachelors.

Bachelor #35: Steven Lipinksi

This West Bronx native comes from a three generation tradition of working in the municipal sanitation field. He most recently was awarded a citation for promptness and route hygiene. Steven’s ideal woman is the type that has a lot to say, whether it be about your current events or your mother. A sometimes sports fan, Steven much prefers gymnastics and ice dancing and actually suffers from a rare allergy to the plastic used in remote controls. His idea of a perfect outing is hanging out with your friends, validating your choices in life and drinking just enough to be interesting but not embarrassing.

Bachelor Fun Fact: Steven has accumulated almost 400,000 miles on his credit card from flower purchases alone.

The Hallway Hotness, Part Three

Not so much a “Part Three” as it is a vignette, or a glimpse.

Last night I was leaving my office with my coworker, Carlos, and we shared the elevator with, guess who…

Harold.

And was… guess what…

On his cell phone.

At this point I’m just assuming the guy has got the thing surgically grafted to his ear. Three out of three times I’ve seen him he’s been on it, so I think that’s a safe assumption to make. Carlos doesn’t know anything about the strange fantasies I’ve been concocting about this guy and his phone, so I’m standing there with my back pressed up against the back of the elevator trying my hardest not to laugh.

This time was a little different, however. Howard was on the phone, sure, but he wasn’t just “Yeah Yeah Yeah”-ing through a bout of telephony-aided pocket pool. This time he was the one talking! Sure, what he was saying might not have been very hot on the surface, but I was standing close enough to him to hear a Charlie Brown teacher-esque version of the voice on the other end.

To call the “Wah wah wah” that I heard “Sultry” would have been an understatement, that muted horn of a lady sounded down right In-Heat. In fact, from the distance where I was eavesdropping everything she said sounded like a moan. I spent all fifteen flights trying not to explode with laughter.

“So uhm… did you get the envelope that I had messenger over?”

“Wah waaaaaaah oooooooh”

“Mmm hmm, and it was alright?”

*Crackle* “Wooo wah wah mmmm.”

“It’d be perfect if I could get a copy with your revisions on my desk by noon tomorrow.”

“Sssss laaa laaa mmm big waaah wah.”

“Okay, talk tomorrow.”

I’ve gotta meet this mystery woman, she’s either the hottest thing since toasted bread or a paraplegic.

Common NYC Misconception #1

Yes! Another budding series!

Alleys.

You know how in every movie that takes place in New York there’s a scene wherein someone gets trapped in an alley? The protagonist is just walking down the street, past a couple arguing in thick Brooklyn accents (that’s another misconception, but for another time) and he/she decides to take a shortcut through an alley. This alley by the way is always filled with steam pouring out of manhole covers. At some point during this walk a shadow appears in the steam and the person gets mugged, beat up, murdered - whatever.

There are absolutely NO alleyways in New York City.

Okay, maybe there are one or two. I think I may have seen one in Chinatown. Gay Street is kind of alley-ish, but that’s not really the mugging type of alley ifyaknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo. There are only streets in New York and even the smallest streets - which happen to be down here in the Financial District - are incredibly well lit at all times of the night.

Therefore it follows that there are NO chainlinked fences at the end of said non-existent alleys that you would need to scale to chase a fleeing criminal. There are numbered streets, hundreds of them in fact. So if you’re taking a shortcut anywhere above Houston Street you really deserve to be mugged in an alley because when dealing with a grid perfectly laid out proportions… there are NO shortcuts.

So, to sum up, if you find yourself staring down the barrel of a revolver in a dark and ominous alleyway, you’re not only a moron, but you’re not in New York. You could be in Detroit, I think they’ve got a lot of Alleys over there… and white rappers with hearts of gold and zombies I think. Yes. White Zombie Rappers with Hearts of Gold… that work in car factories.

Sex Sex Sex and Some More Sex

So I’m a moderator over at Rhythmism.com, a New York dance music/party/lifestyle/general blah blah blah type messageboard. I’m actually the guy in charge of the sex forum, or Carnalism as we call it. My appointment to such a website was really based on a long string of misunderstandings and incorrect assumptions, but whatever.

Anyway, today we decided to have a quick survey and just ask everyone how many sexual partners they’ve had in bracketed poll form: men and women, women and men, men and men and women and women. You get the point.  One point that should be mentioned is that since I’m a moderator over there I would, technically, be able to see who answered what.

Not surprisingly, the men answered very openly and often. Meanwhile the women hardly answered at all. Now considering that I know most of the women that would be answering this question, do you think that this is more a reflection on myself (people being modest towards me), the general nature of men and women (i.e. men wanting to brag and women being modest), a reflection of society imposing its sexist agenda upon the internet or something else?

It should also be mentioned that gay guys are total sluts - with most answering in the 30 to infinity rang - and it was suggested that we add an extra zero on to the end of their poll answers so that they can more correctly ballpark the scores of hot gay sexual encounters they have had.

Also, as you can imagine anytime you use the word “poll” around a sex forum, all kinds of hilarity ensues.

The Hallway Hotness, Part Two

So I saw Harold in the hallway again and guess what?

He was on the phone AGAIN!

This time the phone sex seemed a little more frantic; he was shortening his words and the pace was elevated.  As he walked past me - I was office-bound from a mid afternoon smoke - I again imagined what he was talking about:

“Hi.”

“Oooooh hey Harold, I’ve missed you, have you missed me?”

 ”Yeh.”

 ”Want to get dirty?”

“Yah.”

“Want me to take off my-”

“Yes”

“And touch my-”

“Yes”

“With-”

“Yeh”

“Throbbing-”

“Yeh”

“Milky-”

“Yah”

“Inclined-”

“Yes” 

“Strap-on-”

“Okay”

And then he hung up.  Man does that guy know how to economize.