Occasionally, a friend will say, “I have a great idea for your blog! You should write about…” And I’ll be like, “cool idea. why don’t you write it?” And they’ll say, “but I don’t have a blog.” And I’ll say, “so start one.” And they’ll say, “nah, I don’t have time.”
I get that. I barely have time to write my own posts (see the dearth of entries since…I started the blog in the first place). But I do believe if someone has a funny idea and/or juicy story, they should share. And since I don’t have time/energy to write a full post, when my friend Gavin gave me one of those, “I have a story you should post…” I said, “hey, you can blog on my blog!”
Part of me worries, “is it really a good idea to let some potentially crazy guy post on my blog?” But lately I’ve been into this philosophy called “The Fuck It Way.” (It’s a real book by a guy named John C. Parkin. Check it out!) So I thought, fuck it. Crazy is good for a laugh. And a story from a crazy single dude could add a new perspective to my otherwise mom-topic posts. (Gavin, I hope you’re not offended by the “potentially crazy” description. But hey, The Fuck It Way includes not worrying about offending people. So fuck it.)
Anyway, even though I’m all about Fuck It these days, I still have to say THE LANGUAGE, ACTIONS, AND BELIEFS IN GAVIN’S STORY DON’T NECESSARILY REFLECT THOSE OF THE BLOG HOST…UNLESS YOU THINK IT’S THE MOST BRILLIANT, HILARIOUS THING YOU’VE EVER READ IN WHICH CASE I TAKE FULL CREDIT.
This intro has become a full post, hasn’t it? Well, thank you, Crazy Gavin, for inspiring a post. And BTW, your story allowed me to add new categories to my blog, like SEX, ONE-NIGHT STANDS, and LIES. Marian’s Blog is stepping out on the town!
Without anymore adoodoo, here’s GAVIN’S GUEST BLOG POST.
(Leave comments, especially if you’re shocked and offended!)
I had just seen the movie Clueless on HBO the night before this horror show of a mistake. I remember being shitfaced and watching Paul Rudd and Alicia Silverstone make out to General Public. I collapsed on my bed in a drunken state of self-pity. I was 22. I had fallen in love with a girl at my college two days before I graduated. I have no memory as to how I tried to convince the broad to love me back. It was clear she didn’t though. We had slept together about a week before I fell in love with her. She said things to me as we fucked like ‘your so popular’! As I came with her I thought ‘I am! I am popular! This college is going to miss me!’
A month later I was in NYC, weeping and probably masturbating after watching Clueless. I had already seen it by the way. Yuck. What a drunken dipshit thing to get sad about — that I wasn’t living in Clueless.
The next day I was going to meet a buddy for a “business lunch date.” This was during that fake internet boom. Everyone was a CEO of some internet company. They somehow had all this dough; all I ever saw back then was like a bad version of a Tron video game that was suppose to somehow tell you the best place to get a steak in whatever city you were in. Nothing, as I remember, ever worked back then.
The lunch date wasn’t lunch. We had drink after drink after drink and when he brought up the internet I would shut his face and interrupt him by ordering a drink. This dude was going to see that band Phish at around 6Pm. I was obliterated and still had no intention of seeing Phish. I don’t ever eat fish and I have never seen Phish and if all the fish and members of Phish were zapped I wouldn’t know or care.
But I walked him to the Phish show. Maybe at Wetlands!? I’m not sure and I don’t care now and didn’t care then. They could be strumming in a gutter, starving in a tunnel or noodling away at Wetlands and I’d block it out. I DID block it out!
I went to a bar alone around 7 and began playing pool. I got a splinter that later turned my whole pinky green. Around 10 I started talking to an older woman. I was telling her lie after lie. She looked like Pat Benatar. She looked like Pat Benatar made up for a role in a monster movie.
I was telling her I was a big shot on Wall Street. I know nothing about Wall Street now except there are protests going on there. I knew less about Wall Street then. I think I was telling her I was working on a fictional thing called The McCullen vs McCullen case. I also told her I was an analyst; my friend was an analyst, so I just said that I was one too. She said she had a similar job. I nodded and thought “oh, we are both fucking liars.” I told her I had a huge meeting with the McCullen people. Lies! She told me she was engaged to the mobster Chris Pacillo. Note: I haven’t a clue how to spell his last name and he is in witness protection now with a new last name, so who gives a shit.
We got back to my place around 3Am. I was totally unemployed, as I have been much of my life. She had a gigantic joint of weed she said was laced. I smoked it homeboy style, like I was sucking in a disease. She puffed it all dainty like, looking like a total shithead. We hit the bed at 5Am and I ripped her clothes off. Her head was beginning to look like a giant eraser to me. I was about to finger fuck her and she said ‘No!’ A wave of hidden relief fled over me! This was going to end now. “Wash your finger!” She shrieked.
“What?” I said.
“Go wash your finger in a sink. It looks filthy!” Could she have been referring to my pinky!? It wasn’t even infected yet. And who the fucking hell on this planet pinky fucks a pussy?? Ew. Some mobster she knew probably pinky ring fingered her all the time. But this is academic. Even if she thought she was going to get pinkied, my pinky was days away from turning green. Maybe Its like she had a 6th sense for dangerous obstacles in filthy sex and people.
So I washed my hands and 5 seconds later I was inside her. So drunk and high I just sat, missionary, and thought about the girl I still loved. 5 seconds later I came and as I came, my brain changed from “slacker whateverness” to horror! I gave her a loving peck on the cheek that Dustin Hoffman would have trouble doing with sincerity.
As I said, I was totally unemployed. I looked at the sun shining through the window and said, “well I better get to Wall Street! The Strauss vs Strauss case is today.” More Lies!
I got in the shower and shaved discussing the pros and cons of Strauss, McCullan and Stern (somehow these names morphed into my firm), loud so she could hear my babble. I put on a Prada suit. Something you’d wear to a…well I don’t know. I would wear it around my house mostly. I made a fake call to Strauss, McCullan and Stern, “shit, ill be right there!” EraserWoman was puffing away at my Marlboros. Take em. Take anything and let’s end this cruel charade. Freak!
Outside we walked to the 2 train. Every face on the street I thought I knew from somewhere. I’d dart ahead of the woman and then bang, she was trotting beside me again! Trotting and flapping! Like a retarded pegasus! “Well I’m going to Wall Street.”
Suspicion! Then: ”I’m going to Fulton,” she said coyly. Fuck me!!!!
In the sweaty subway station both the local and the express came and went. I stood and stared at them like a crummy scarecrow, stalling, not willing to follow through with my jobless job bluff. ”Those weren’t my trains! Neither of them!” I said.
“How could that be?” Her eraser head had become a skyscraper and the universe was watching us.
“Ahhhh my train!” Same train I rejected before, I zombiewalked onto it!
“I’ll get on it too” she grinned. Huge SUSPICION!
“I’m hot’ I said. In fact fuck this!”
“Fuck what?” A white dude with dreadlocks(which pretty much equals the worst guy on the planet) was smiling at me. Shaking his head. What a Fucker! I thought.
“Fuck work! And fuck wall street,” I made a mad dash as the doors opened on 42nd street! Sprinting out into the uptown train car I didn’t even look back. I’m sure she wasn’t surprised. My chariot to sleep began to zoom away from my disaster. Sweating through my suit I zipped up to 72nd street! Jogged. Then ran to my apartment building. Instructed my doorman(my doormen have always been allies, brothers, fathers to me) to not let anyone up ever again. I said “ever again.” Naked by the time I hit my couch. ”Fuck’ I said. Ha ha. Fuck my own Wall Street!”