Thursday, August 29th, 2010 9:22 pm
There are days that seem to go on forever. Seconds counted down by Ben Stein in a slow nasal brogue. Today was that day. I sat in a computer chair all day running regressions and determining whether I should use a best fit line or exponential smoothing to clarify the graphical fruits of my labor. As I walked out of my office I contemplated throwing myself down the flight of stairs to end my misery, but I was already in the elevator since I am way too lazy to use stairs.
My self-loathing has been in full J.D. Salinger mode for 12 hours.
I’m not usually like this. I am usually my biggest fan – most days I wanna grow up to be me. I should have never quit the Zoloft. I was never prescribed Zoloft, which makes it even more incomprehensible that I quit.
Now I lay on my couch trying to determine if 10 years had passed since Maria and I made a pact to “bang in 10 years” if we remained single. I don’t even know how to get a hold of her now. What if I did find her and she decided not to honor the agreement? Could I sue her? Whoa, this daydream is getting out of hand; now I am taking legal action to get some ass.
My phone rings.
My BFF Phil called me to confirm our trip to Nashville. The trip was scheduled for the next day, but I hadn’t given it a second thought since Phil initially asked me to go a month ago. Phil is renowned for vacation blue balls. We have planned half a dozen roadies that never materialized. The closest we came to actually doing something was Lollapalooza 2008. I was in his driveway wearing a head band, a skin-tight Phish tee, and red henna-stained biceps when he texted me from his bedroom that he couldn’t go.
When he asked if I was ready I laughed and hung up on him.
Then my BFFF (best friend forever, fuck!) and Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson called and told me that the trip was actually happening. He was spending the night at Phil’s place to make sure that he didn’t come up with any reason to cancel the trip. He also informed me that Phil’s GF, Stephanie, who will be referred to as Steps from now on, and Phil’s cancerous buddy from grade school Deve Staly would be joining us on the trip. Part of me did not want to be in a car with four other dinks for 8 hours, and the other part of me really didn’t want to be in a car with four other dinks for 8 hours. But Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson basically said I had no choice, and I couldn’t say no to him: he’s bailed me out of jail twice, leant me his urine on multiple occasions, and hasn’t told anyone about the time I accidentally wore a woman’s blouse to a job interview.
So I was off to Nashville. I did have some major concerns about the trip, though.
1- I hated country music.
2- I like black people too much to truly enjoy myself in Nashville.
3- I voted for Bo Bice over Carrie Underwood.
4- I was legitimately worried that crossing through some backward-ass Southern town would be the death of me and my glorious olive complexion.
5- I had never farted in front of a girl in my life, but I knew I couldn’t last 16 hours in a car without pumping toxins into the air.
6- Phil’s grade school buddy Deve Staly was a horrible person. He was a mooch. His skin was oily like a lizard’s. He looked and acted like a Furby. And nobody really liked him. The only reason he was going was Phil’s disgusting civility. Phil and Deve were huge dorks in elementary school, middle school, and their initial high school years. Remember the kid that pooped his pants and ate glue in elementary school, Toby something or other? Well, Phil and Deve were the kids that Toby picked on. As they grew up Phil became cool and Deve didn’t. And instead of doing the proper thing and dumping his dorky past for new cool friends like me, Phil tried to marry the two worlds. So we were stuck with Deve and his sweaty sheen.
7- Why is there Braille on drive-through ATMs?
8- I could probably squeeze out a column using some of the debauchery certain to ensue. Or, even better, I could just steal whatever Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson was working on and present it as my own. Stealing his writing won’t be as difficult as you’d think – I just have to throw a dictionary or a bottle of brandy across the room and have him chase it; meanwhile, I would be lifting some graceful prose word for word from the pages of his notebook.
Friday, August 30th, 2010 8:30 am
Once upon a Detroit dreary, while I pondered eggs or coffee,
Over sex stains of some forgotten whore,
While I toked, nearly choking, suddenly there came a joking,
An unfunny joking, joking at my condo door.
`’Tis stupid Phil,’ I muttered, `Joking at my condo door -
If it was only this, and nothing more.’
Oh, it was much more.
He thought it would be funny to wake me up by yelling room service at my front door. That joke, while not funny at all, is even less funny when the recipient of said joke doesn’t live in a fucking hotel. Needless to say I opened the door to find Phil, bright eyed and bushy haired waving the cavalry into my arrogant abode.
“He’s here!” he yelled.
For some reason my presence was shocking to Phil. Then he hugged me and whispered into my ear something about how many beautiful women were roaming the streets of Nashville right now. Apparently lost on him was the fact that his lovely companion Steps was walking up the steps. Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson said nothing to me as he gallivanted past me and went straight for my liquor cabinet and took a nearly incomprehensible swig from the first bottle he grabbed.
“When are you putting this liquor cabinet together?”
Oh yeah, I got the liquor cabinet as a gift and it was still unassembled inside the Wal-Mart packaging. I was too lazy to put it together, but I am industrious – so I put it to good use by stacking my liquor on the box. If nothing else it is a conversation starter; a sad and failure-highlighting conversation starter.
I didn’t let Deve into my apartment, and he waited patiently outside until we were ready.
I made sure I was packed; credit card and condom – and the condom was more show than anything. Then I made eggs and pancakes for my friends as we watched Regis and Kelly. I fed my goldfish and kissed my poster of John Stamos goodbye and we were off.
Friday, August 30th, 2010 11:00 am
Phil is a great friend, one of the best. But his performance this morning takes the cake. He had a case of Red Bull and two packs of Marlboro Lights for your boy. He said it was so we didn’t have to stop because of me, but I knew it was because he cared. And then in a shocking turn of events his girlfriend pulled out a cooler with more drugs than I had ever witnessed in one place. We were all gonna be high as fuck for hours. She had Jolly Ranchers, Sour Patch Kids, four kinds of Bubble Yum, Mini Twix bars, Pixie Stix, Smarties, those fake candy lips that you can wear and eat, Capri-Suns, a tub of Baconaisse for the chocolate covered pretzels she packed, and a shit-ton more.
Friday, August 30th, 2010 5:00 pm
My plan to steal Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson’s writing was not going off hitchless. I could barely write on account of the huge piece-of-shit car we were taking to Nashville. Once we hit 60 mph it shook so violently that it felt like we were riding Michael J. Fox. On top of that, the girl I was bedding at the time turned into Tyrannosaurus Text and took up a majority of prime thieving hours. Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson also doubles as my consigliere, and he told me to can her since her eyes were so close together she resembled a Cyclops from certain angles. I handed him my phone and had him do it for me. Allowing him to break up with her gave me the chance to flee from relationship responsibilities and to steal his work –which I did.
We pulled into a gas station into a town that was apparently in constant ZZ Top homage (the gas pumps were levers) and every woman had two shoeless kids in tow. Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson walked away to dump Cyclops, so I grabbed his notebook and stole the first thing I found:
One bottle of Armagnac (pref. hors d’age)
One bottle of Armenian brandy
One pint of Christian Brothers
One pint of Canadian Club
Four ballpoint pens, black
One legal pad
Do you really want to hurt me?
Three blocks of pepper jack cheese
One case of Petpo-Bismol
Pack of Pall Malls, pref. Blue
Three photographs of Thomas Pynchon’s teeth, c. 1960s
Rental wheelchair–research purposes–possibly from hotel?
Concertina reeds
A ream of Canadian postcards
Do you really want to make me cry?
Napkins, pref. white/blank/near square as feasible
Bust of Franz Liszt (for hotel writing desk)
Chipotle mayo
Gallon of Lubriderm (or equiv.)
Kartvelian phrasebook
Bowler hat (to blend in)
I’m not sure what it means, but I am sure that it is better than anything I have ever written.
Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson, being the BFFF that he is, returned with two lit cigs. We smoked as he regaled me with the breakup details. I would enlighten you, but the story is far too gruesome and gut-wrenchingly depressing to ever be mentioned again – thank god I have a friend as callous as Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson.
Deve on the other hand was in full mooch mode. He asked me for a cig, and I denied him, so he stood downwind of us inhaling all the free second hand smoke his lungs desired.
Friday, August 30th, 2010 8:00 pm
After driving through the pit of despair known as Cincinnati, down through Kentucky, and somehow through Madagascar, we had arrived upon the hallowed Dolly Parton-blessed streets of Nashville, Tennessee. I have to say, it was impressive.
We took a walk down Main Street guided by sequins and flashing lights. It was off the charts. Music bellowed out of every bar and most alleys. Tight jeans and boots abounded. Every girl thought she was a Southern belle and every guy was here to find a Southern belle. Even ugly people had a chance here. They could hide their decrepit visage with an oversized cowboy hat and a bandana around the neck.
We walked into a bar and I ordered a double amaretto sour. When the bartender called me a nancy and handed me a Coors Light instead, I knew I had arrived.
The conclusion of Rosicky’s “Viva Nashvegas” can be found here.
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