MyWalkup

Hi all. It’s been a while. But luckily for all we’ve found some time to get this blog going again. Here’s an update on life:

a) We’re leaving the Upper East for Murray Hill and shortening our stairs commute, from 5th floor to 2nd. The broker who sold us the apartment lives on the top floor and told us “we had to smoke weed if we wanted to live there”. I’m still not entirely sure if he was serious.

b) My friends and I have decided to take part in a 12 mile obstacle course this November: http://toughmudder.com/. If you’re wondering what I must look like in order to even be thinking about doing this, here is your answer: FIT AS HELL!

c) The  other day I explained an apartment I had seen in an email to a friend by saying it was  ”30 dicks by 30 dicks. 900 square dicks. Also about 15 dicks high. 13,500 dicks can probably fit.” Which would be fine had I not had the broker CC’ed.

d) I dated a girl from the Southeast. She was completely fine with referring to my package as “Maximus” . She also fantasized about being videotaped during sex. Her negatives: She hated life, never paid for a thing, and cried at least once every time we went out. Moral of the story ladies: Just cause you’re hot and kinky doesn’t mean you can be a fucking lunatic.

e) I’ve narrowed down the things that make me happy in life and realized Sunday television (True Blood, Hung, Entourage, and Mad Men) and FIFA 10 rank higher than people.

f) My dear friend pissed his pants twice in one night. Once in his work place and again in my kitchen later in the night. Here are the full details.

- First he gets drunk with work people and then runs back to his office to pee. Realizes the bathrooms are locked and pisses himself before peeing into a garbage can.

- Changes his pants and comes to my apartment. Begins to iron the pissed on pants over my wooden tables. Ends up ruining the wooden table with burn marks.

- Sticks the piss pants in the oven at way too hot of a temperature.

- Eventually abandons the pants and puts on my roommates pants, a person at least 20 pounds lighter than himself.

- Goes to a bar called St. Jerome’s where he on 3 separate occasions tries to buy Lady Gaga a drink. All 3 times he is shut down, but she eventually buys him a round. Somehow she also lets him stay after her bouncer wanted to kick him out.

- Returns to my place having to pee badly. Realizes he can’t get his big ass out of my roommates pants and pisses himself on my kitchen floor. I watch from a far as he is apologizing and continuing to wet himself right in front of me.

g) I grew a beard. At one point it was so untamed that Sutton Place kicked me out of their bar for looking like a terrorist. This is a true story. An old drunk lady heard someone else talking about terrorists and then attacked me screaming about her dead husband. The 6′6 bouncer who looked like the Green Mile guy probably didn’t care to hear my side of the story.

~ Jones

Last Thursday/Friday was quite the eventful two days for me.  On Thursday night, myself and three others had tickets to the John Mayer concert at MSG (don’t knock the man’s music until you’ve heard him go off on a live bluesy guitar solo.  The guy can play the crap out of a guitar.  It makes me forgive “Your Body is a Wonderland).  I was getting out of my suburban trap and headed into NYC for a night!  That fact alone made me happy.

Going into Thursday I had a plan.  I was going to go to work and from there head into the city where I would meet up with my brothers and friend.  So I begin my commute, but with a few inches of snow already on the ground.  Meteorologists being the modern day snake oil salespeople that they are, I wasn’t sure how the snow was going to play out; but here it was.  So my already devilish commute (see my last post!) was now compounded by snow.  As it turns out, my Honda Civic handles a lot like a sled in the snow, minus any semblance of control.  Two miles from my house and I’m in a ditch.  While sitting in that awkward angle, my car tilted at 45 degrees, I realize the following thing: Very few jobs, let alone my menial little temp job, are worth cannon-balling your way to work for.  I say “few jobs” because there has to be a professional candy taster or swimsuit model photographer that would kill a person to get to work.

Eventually I get towed out of the ditch and retreat back home.  New plan:  Take the train.  Which works out fine.  We had some time to kill after arriving in Penn, so we went and grabbed something to eat at the Moon Cake Café, a little Asian diner a few blocks from MSG.  Surprisingly, the food was pretty good and I was shocked at how affordable it was.  Also, Sapporo pints were only $2.50, which in Manhattan seems like a rare find outside of happy hour.  So if you’re in the area, I recommend that you check it out.  After Moon Cake we still had time, so we dropped in at a pizza joint across from the Garden called Spinelli’s for a few more beverages.  I have to hand it to one member of our group for being a smidge underage, yet keeping his cool while drinking next to four police officers. 

Finally, the concert.  I’ll spare you the details except to say it was a great show and go look up Mayer’s “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone” cover on Youtube.  

After we get out of the concert the real fun started.  As it turns out, all of our trains back up north were cancelled.  At nearly midnight, we find ourselves trapped in NYC.  We made a few phone calls and got an invite to crash at our friend’s boss’s office/old apartment.  As it turns out, this friend works for a minor celebrity!  Now, as I am not sure we were actually allowed to stay there, I’m forced to omit the name of this celebrity in the wildly miniscule chance that, in some bizarre series of events, this story was to get back to him.  I know I’m being incredibly paranoid, but hell, stranger things have happened.  Why risk it?  I’ll let you in on the secret should we ever cross paths in the real world.

We hitched a subway ride, missed our stop and ended up a few blocks from where we were supposed to be.  Not knowing our way around this particular NYC neighborhood, I navigated purely compass directions (you know, North, South, East and West?).  We traipsed through the snowstorm for while, the streets completely empty.  I hope you all get a chance to walk by yourself on a people-less Manhattan street, because it lets you notice things from a completely different perspective.  

When we finally get there, we have to walk through a sketchy basement.  I’m talking steam pipes, utility doors, the whole horror movie setup.  I was pretty sure our little expedition would end like Hostel, but we eventually make it to the apartment.  Sorry to all of my NYC friends, but this place was by far the best apartment I have yet to set foot in.  It was also stocked with a crazy collection of little oddities, including an actual coffin and a floating rock/magnet device.  I could have been happy living in this place’s bathroom.  Unfortunately, none of us had the guts to stay in the celeb’s actual bed, so we crushed ourselves onto one wraparound couch.  I spent the entire night with my feet propped up on a coffee table/giant tree stump. 

The next day we ended up getting stuck in another train station and spent many torturous hours just waiting for the weather to let up.

Worth it.

Jeans and Dear John.

Oh were you not aware of this? If you were at the 7:40 showing of Dear John at 64th and 2nd and wondered why two very good looking straight men were sitting together at the back of the theatre, here is your answer… therapy. Oh yes it was a quiet weekend on the 5th floor. Some friends went skiing, some had brothers to hang out with, others were at cult like family functions, but the two of us remained, alone, yet together. We both recently exited relationships, his a very serious one, mine a very seriously dysfunctional one. So to keep ourselves from angrily hating every happy couple in sight or partaking in desperate singles functions that make you feel ten times worse about yourself than you already did, we got jeans and watched Dear John. Silly sounding I know, but more therapeutic than you’d ever imagine.

Jeans: A guilty pleasure. Everyone loves a new pair of nice fitting jeans. I went with a deep blue pair of Levi 514’s. I’m wearing them as I type. I plan on going on many exciting adventures with these jeans.

Dear John: Why would I want to watch an incredibly sad love movie? Well why wouldn’t I. Nicholas Sparks has shown me what love is, and for that I thank him. And if you’re a hater, well good for you, I hope you have a horrible marriage where your wife cheats on you with a French guy twenty years younger than you. Then you’re forced to kill him with a snow globe.

Ok so there was more to the day than just jeans and Dear John. We got smashed at Stumble Inn, which had half priced beers all night. In my drunkenness it appeared as if my friend was flirting with Heather Graham, but I’m obviously giving this girl far too much credit. The girls in the bar that night were pretty ferocious. Females will apparently do whatever it takes to find love on Valentine’s Day. I, regrettably, was far more interested in napping at my table.

In summary, Valentine’s Day is kind of shitty. You have to wait on longer lines for movies, restaurants give you 45 minutes to eat so they can cram in their next victims, and flowers and chocolates quadruple in price overnight. But I’m finished bickering.

Note: Going to Doc Watsons for day drinking on weekends is extremely relaxing. They market themselves as “a livingroom” and it really does feel that way.

I don’t really feel like typing anymore because Tang and my friend Mike loaded me with so many Jager bombs from Metro 53 last night that I now have wings.

- Jones

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