The New York Chronicles, Vol. 3

I realize the one week deadline I gave myself to write the next New York entry has come and gone. I've been really busy at work.

Of course, that's not true. In fact, if anyone ever tells you that the reason they haven't called in awhile is because they've been really busy at work, then they're probably lying to your face. They've actually found cooler people than you to hang out with. Sure, they may go on and on about spreadsheets and endless meetings, but in their head they're thinking about how the hell to get off the phone with you so they can go meet up with people they actually like.

Or in my case, my real reason for being so scarce the past few weeks is that I've had an almost full DVR jam-packed with old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 and The O.C. that were just begging to be watched. I've also pondered the question of how much time one man can spend in front of a mirror trying to get his hair to look as perfect as Ryan Atwood's without finally giving up and putting a hat on.

The answer? 1 hour, 17 minutes, 42 seconds.

And I wonder why my friends have all been so busy at work lately.

But I digress. I also realize that most of the vibrant memories that were so fresh in my mind concerning that night in New York have faded into a clump of characters, stories and inside jokes that I can't possibly recall truthfully. But I've been looking at it in a more positive way. Over time, in my mind, that night has gone from a memorable night of drinking to an epic, 13-hour marathon of decadence and debauchery that I will one day tell my grandchildren about (assuming that the extraordinary events of that night didn't somehow render me infertile, of course).

With that being said, I give you the third entry in my NYC Chronicles. To the best of my knowledge, everything that follows actually happened. Either that, or my subconscious completely made it up in an effort to make me seem cooler than I actually am. Which, I hate to tell you Brain, is a pretty easy task.

It was around 2:45 in the afternoon on Friday when we decided we were done sightseeing. While most people were still busy at work (or making plans with their cool friends and blowing off the rest), we made up our minds that the city had more to offer than just architecturally significant buildings and world-famous landmarks. The city also had bars. Tons and tons of bars. Our day had started out sightseeing, so why not end it by blinding ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol. In a way, it's poetic.

Rhodes suggested Rudy’s, where we could find a good jukebox (I’m intrigued), cheap pitchers of beer (Just point me in the right direction) and free hot dogs (Sweet holy mother of all that is delicious, we must leave right now). So with mouths salivating and livers praying to the internal organ gods, we were on our way.

You can’t miss Rudy’s because it has a giant pink pig standing outside the entrance. To my knowledge, it has nothing to do with the bar. Either it’s just there to serve as a landmark or they want to be prepared in case an impromptu Pink Floyd concert breaks out on the sidewalk. For comedic purposes, I’d like to think it’s the latter.

As soon as we walked in the door, we knew this was our kind of place. A few old-timers were slouched over their drinks, Frank Sinatra was blaring louder than he ever intended his music to be played and the booths consisted of more red duct tape than actual leather. From behind the bar, a slightly grey-haired woman greeted us and asked what we wanted to drink. She was probably in her 50’s, but she had a youthful quality about her that kept her attractive. As Rhodes would find out, this quality was magnified by approximately 500% with each beer he drank.

It was a sunny, crisp day, so we decided to start off on the back patio outside. This consisted of a porch the size of Post-It, a small, rickety table and four mismatched chairs. The small area was enclosed by four tall buildings around us and random, discolored water trickled down the wall beside us. They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen because there’s valet parking and a bidet in the bathrooms. In fact, there wasn’t even a lock on the bathroom door. If you wanted to piss, you had to balance on one leg with your other foot pressed against the door to keep other people from barging in. I imagine the end result looked something like a cherubic fountain, only with the liquid coming from somewhere other than his water bucket.

If all of that doesn’t make up an ideal setting to drink in New York, I don’t know what does.

We drank a few pitchers and were talking about the events of the day, when a man came out on the patio. He was dressed much like a clichéd college professor, right down to the leather patches on his tweed jacket. Under his arm was a New York Times and on the tip of his nose were antique looking glasses he had to contort his face to see out of. For all we knew, he had just stepped out of a 1980’s undergrad sex-romp comedy about a fraternity of underdogs that just wanted to party. He, of course, played Professor Dingleberry, the foil to all their collegiate antics.

But Professor Dingleberry was actually a pretty nice guy once you got past the tweed-covered exterior. He asked if he could sit down near us and inquired about why we were in the city as he sipped his Boddington’s. I remember thinking what a distinguished gentleman he seemed to be as a glimmer of sun hit the catholic cross around his neck.

Fast forward three hours later and Professor Dingleberry is sitting in our booth, telling me about how his wife sucks and that he hates his job. The distinguished gentleman’s hot breath envelops my face with each slur as I stare at his cross. This is partly to avoid eye contact and partly because I’m praying to God that he leaves to go bust up a frat party at the Kappa Kappa Chugga house.

Meanwhile, a literally decrepit old man was singing Ole Blue Eyes loudly at the bar. Actually, singing isn’t really the correct term, since he mostly just turned around and shouted the lyrics at either me or Rhodes.

“Now here is the best part…” He swiveled around his barstool, almost falling over in the process, stared directly at Rhodes and pointed, “YOU’LL HAVE A HEAD START!” He swiveled back around while mumbling, “If you are among the very young….at heart.”

We didn’t know whether to laugh, cower in fear or call the number on his Medic Alert bracelet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a few beers outside, we decided to grab a booth before people start getting off work and out of class. This proved to be a good idea, as the place filled up pretty quickly.

The beer was really flowing and hot dogs were being served left and right to the widest variety of people I’d ever seen in one room. As the natural light began to trickle out the front door and give way to the dingy bar lights inside, we ordered another round and settled into a booth.

Sightseeing was fun, but I had a feeling that places like this were what New York City was really about.

I had a swig of beer, a bite of my hot dog and relaxed as the red duct tape creaked underneath me.

The Lemon That Destroyed Us All

Note: The next volume of The New York Chronicles will appear within the next week. Until then, enjoy this tale.

The following took place at Subway today with The Silk, GunderBlunder and Hoot. (Incidentally, Subway is going through more changes than a confused teenage boy realizing that even his mom’s latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens has something spankworthy in it. They even sell pizza there now. Seriously.)

The Silk gets a sweet tea. We all sit down. He wonders why there are no lemons at the tea distribution area. We all agree that it is, indeed, strange to have a tea distribution area completely void of sliced lemons.

The Silk decides to inquire with the management as to why there are no sliced lemons.

Collectively, we also ponder exactly what makes up a Subway Seafood Sensation Sub Sandwich. Crab bits? Unidentifiable white fish meat? A cornucopia of processed sea-faring animals? Mentally challenged baby sea monkeys that kids don't want to play with?

It is decided that this question will also be asked by The Silk along with the aforementioned lemon question.

The Silk departs to the counter. “Do you have any lemons?”

He is met with the blank stare of the man behind the counter. His mouth is agape, yet no words can seem to make their way from his small brain to his large tongue.

The woman behind the counter, sensing the need for upper management aid, interjects and simply states, “No. No lemons.”

Clearly, she has been chosen as their leader due to her exemplary social skills and complete mastery of the English language.

Finding this odd, but knowing he must come back to the table with the important ingredient information we requested, The Silk proceeds on with his mission.

“Can I ask you something else?” he politely says. “What exactly is in the Seafood Sensation Sub?”

The puzzled look remains on the man’s face. We can’t be sure, but from a distance it appears as though a small bit of drool (or zesty honey mustard) has collected in the corner of his mouth. Obviously, the title of Sandwich Artist does not require basic motor skills.

The woman replies, “Crab meat…and…”

Then, unfortunately, she is stricken with the same face coma that has evidently taken over her subordinate and stands quietly, searching for an explanation of their culinary delights.

“Crab meat…and…” she repeats.

The Silk waits patiently. The awkwardness builds and the tension mounts as the line becomes longer behind him. What once started as a simple quest to sweeten his drink has turned into an all-out crisis.

“Crab meat…and…” she says again. You can hear the synapses in her brain firing information, searching for the next word that will end this ordeal and relieve her of the pressure that is bearing down upon her very soul. Then, finally, she reveals the elusive secret ingredient.

“Crab meat…and….lemon.”

After a brief moment spent wrapping our heads around what just happened, all of our brains spontaneously exploded at the sheer audacity of the situation.

In other words, it was a pretty good lunch.

The New York Chronicles, Vol. 2

After a long afternoon and night spent inside a cavernous Irish pub in Queens, I awoke with my upper body in a chair and my legs barely resting on a four-wheeled ottoman that had slid across the floor throughout the night. I looked around the room to see Jordo, who had wisely accepted Rhodes’ offer of a blow-up bed. He had two of them, which is a must for guys in order to avoid any “accidental night touching” incidents, but I chose the chair. Hey, if I’m going to truly pass out somewhere, I might as well go all out and make it the most uncomfortable spot in the apartment. I stretched and wondered if I could possibly find somewhere even worse to sleep the next night, like maybe lying on a pile of coat hangers in a closet or hanging out a window.

As planes from LaGuardia rumbled overhead, we began to stir and assess the damage from the night before. We had all our limbs and hadn’t woken up next to any women with Deflated Monster Faces (you know the type…they look like a monster whose head has been overly-filled with air and then deflated too quickly), so things were looking good. After a bit of discussion, it was decided that the night’s only real casualty was the ridiculous amount of money I had thrown into the jukebox in an effort to hear “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner.

In case you were wondering, it triumphantly played and we were the only ones who even noticed. Some people just don't appreciate culture.

After a few quick showers and a little Broken Social Scene playing through Rhodes’ iBook, we were more than ready to head to Manhattan and hang out. We planned on cramming the day full of sightseeing until it got dark, and then hitting up as many bars as possible for as long as possible. Here’s a quick rundown of the day.

Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center – As Jordo and I discussed how breathtaking the view was and how insignificant everyone looked on the streets below, Rhodes interjected to discuss how amazing it would be to lean a girl over the edge and do her from behind.

Central Park West – We grabbed some lunch at a local deli and stopped to eat it around a statue of Christopher Columbus. It was there where we noticed an older businessman talking to a young woman who was crying uncontrollably. Between her sobs, we came to the completely made-up conclusion that he was breaking off their affair because he “had a wife and kids. This thing…you and I…was just a fling, and dammit Debbie, you knew that. Now get your sweet little ass back to accounting before I fire you.” In our minds, he then smacked her on the butt, lit a big Cuban cigar with a $100 bill, cleaned his monocle and drove off in a roadster that looked suspiciously like a Monopoly piece.

We then decided to hit up a few more sights while we were in the area. The Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields, NYU. After exhausting all the entertaining possibilities in the area, we knew it was time to start drinking heavily. It had been a long day of walking, subway rides, pictures and intrusion into the personal lives of businessmen and their secretaries.

At Rhodes’ suggestion, we headed into Rudy’s, a dive bar in every sense of the word. We went in for cheap beer, but found a lot more. Drunken, serenading senior citizens, true love with a grey-haired bartender and a new friend named Michael. Michael C. Hall.

The time as we walked through the door to start our night? 3:41 p.m.

This could get ugly. Deflated Monster Face ugly.

To be continued…

The New York Chronicles, Vol. 1

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

Those were some of the first words we heard as we arrived in New York. As we waited in line for a classic yellow cab, dozens of other drivers were milling about, promising that their rides were classier, faster and presumably featured slightly fewer urine stains on their seats. But everyone in line was more than content to wait a few minutes in order to assure riding in a taxi that was actually part of a legitimate business.

One of the “classy” independent drivers approached a woman behind us and began his sales pitch very professionally.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to avoid the long wait, I have a car available now. Where do you need to go?”

“I’m heading downtown. How much would that be?” she replied.

He thought for a moment and then made her an offer. “For you? Only $70.”

A look of shock passed over her face. “$70! That’s ridiculous. No thanks.”

What followed this brief exchange was a back and forth conversation that escalated into a shouting match, ending with the woman saying very calmly, “Stop talking. Just stop talking to me. We’re done. Stop talking.”

The driver, being the consummate gentleman, ended his proposition with an obscenity-laced tirade that concluded with him storming off while yelling the aforementioned closing remarks.

Clearly, this guy had a few more classes left in business school. Or maybe I’m wrong and, somewhere along the way, the saying changed from “The customer is always right.” to “The customer can take her luggage and cram it up her ass.”

Everyone around us couldn’t help but laugh. Anywhere else in the country, this would have been an insane occurrence that might require a call to the authorities, or at least the Better Business Bureau, but not here.

We turned around to see how the woman was holding up after her brush with Bruno, The Possibly Icepick-Wielding Taxi Driver. Would she be angry, upset or maybe even in shock of what just happened?

But instead, she was laughing too. She looked at us, smiled and simply said, “Welcome to New York.”

As if on cue, our car pulled up. We threw our luggage in and got inside. As we headed to our friend’s house in Queens, we knew we were in for a memorable weekend. Because with a Welcoming Committee like that, we were completely sold on the City That Never Sleeps.

And we couldn’t wait to help it live up to its name.

Googling Weirdos From Across The Globe

If I had to guess what percentage of this site’s hits come from people randomly Googling words that happen to appear in my blogs, I’d say it was somewhere around 90%. Give or take 10%. Probably give.

But the good thing about it is that with my trusty site tools, I can see what they searched to find my site, where they’re from, how long they looked at it and what they had for breakfast. That’s right Jim Franklin from Gary, Indiana. I’ve noticed you’ve been eating a lot of bran cereal. Maybe cut down on the fiber, buddy. Wouldn’t want your colon to explode.

Call it market research. Call it invading people’s privacy. Or probably just call it an easy way to write a blog without having to come up with new material. Think of it as a sitcom’s first clip show. Perhaps Perfect Strangers. Oh, Balki. Your heart was as big as all of Mepos.

***************

"Frost Brew Liner"
Easily the most popular google search for Rowdy Bowden. People must really be catching on to my theory that Coors Light’s Frost Brewed technology is at the core of a global conspiracy that will shake the foundation of civilization and alter the course of history.

Plus, it keeps your beer mighty cold.


"Long 4skin"
There are a lot of 4skin searches, but this one from Iowa added a descriptor. I can’t help but wonder, is this guy plagued by an abnormally long 4skin? Is it a woman who is disturbed by her man’s freakish 8skin? Or is it simply a Jewish mohel brushing up on the latest circumcision techniques?


"I lookup this guy shorts on the train see his bulge"
(from Australia)
I have no idea what this means or which one of my blogs it took him to. But I do know that I’m canceling my trip to Australia.


"UGA mascot pissing on gator"
(from Florida)
Rowdy Bowden: Fulfilling all your collegiate mascot urination needs since 2006.


"Necrophilia safesex"
(from Japan)
Because if you’re going to have sex with a corpse, for God’s sake, be smart about it.


"Cannot grow facial hair"
(from Australia)
I’m just glad that someone shares my plight. Even if they live halfway around the world, when I look up at the stars and feel my 2 weeks worth of “beard” that looks like I glued 50 particles of sand to my face, I know that someone, somewhere, is doing the same.


"Ducky shark facial"
(from Holland)
No clue why Google directed this search to me, but Ducky Shark Facial conjures up the most disturbing image I can think of since I watched Dark Crystal at my grandma’s house. Those creatures weren’t quite muppets and they weren’t quite human. But they were definitely 100% freaky. Which is what I imagine the guy from Holland who strung together those three words is.


"Tips on how to please a woman"
(from Canada)
I don’t know what’s funnier. The fact that this person is from Canada, that they looked at my site for 14 minutes, or that they actually hoped I would be of any help whatsoever on this topic.

******************

North Avenue Nutbags

One of the best parts about living in the city is that I don’t have to drive far to get to work. But that short stretch of road I use is known as North Avenue, and every day I see a lifetime’s worth of crackheads, bums, thugs, toothless hookers, pimps with pouches full of hooker teeth and other assorted street trash.

Normally, I could just ignore them, but one of their character traits (besides the unmistakable odor of stale bread and gonorrhea) is that basic pedestrian courtesy is completely foreign to them. In their eyes, a crosswalk is merely a suggestion and a “Do Not Walk” sign is nothing but a pole to urinate on after downing a bottle of extra strength cough syrup.

But you can’t fault them all. A lot of them are just products of their environment, however roach-infested that may be. If nothing else, they’re a pretty good source of entertainment when you’re sitting in traffic listening to your favorite O-Town….um, I mean Metallica CD. So, when you’re driving down your city’s equivalent of North Avenue, keep an eye out for some of these characters that I’ve noticed on my daily commute.

***************

The Electric Wheelchair Boogaloo Crew
I see plenty of old men in this area in wheelchairs, but they’re always cruising in electric ones. And they’re quite graceful. Maneuvering around curbs, broken bottles, passed out meth addicts, random limbs sticking out of trash bags. These guys are like homeless NASCAR drivers. Except with more teeth.


The Crazies
These are the best. There’s no rhyme or reason to what they do. Take for example a woman that I had the pleasure to watch cross the street in front of me the other morning. She was dressed in a lovely ensemble from the latest Derelict clothing line and had a very noticeable limp. She would take one step, then bring her other foot even. Another step, then even. Kind of like if she was walking down a church aisle, about to marry the man of her dreams and become Mrs. Wonky Crackhead. But the best part was that each time a foot hit the ground, she’d say:

“Step.”
“Jomp.”
“Step.”
“Jomp.”

Now, I don’t know what Jomp is, but it’s definitely funny. And it’s definitely going to become part of my daily vocabulary.


The Crazies (with possible violent tendencies)
These guys aren’t quite as fun. At first, you might think they’re just regular Crazies, but as you listen to them babble, you start to realize they might actually turn their craziness on you. It goes from being fun to frightening faster than they can shout “The government infested my brain with Cracker Jacks!”

The real turning point is the moment when they actually make eye contact with you. You can see their soul, and even it hasn’t had bathed in months. It breaks that “fourth wall” and you realize you’re no longer watching as a casual observer. You’re about to get sucked into the constant David Lynch movie that’s playing in their heads.

If this occurs, just hit the gas. I don’t care if they’re standing right in front of you. Just floor it. The time you might have to spend in jail for running them over will be a lot less frightening than whatever they have planned for you and your purdy mouth.


The Geriatric “G”
As our population gets older, some guys that were really fly at one point never really change their look. The guy I’ve nicknamed The Geriatric “G” is actually one of the coolest playas on the block. It just so happens that he’s 78 years old and uses a walker. But he does it while decked out in a maroon leather suit.

And I don’t care how old you are…if you can rock a maroon leather suit and still look cool, you can get away with having two artificial hips and a Fixodented grill. You’re still superfly in my book.


Smelly Balls
I see this guy every now and then and I named him Smelly Balls because it looks like he’d have really smelly balls.

***************

Every town has them. So I say give ‘em a nickname and enjoy their antics. Just do it from a safe distance. You never know what kind of monstrously superpowered lice the government might have infested them with. And those suckers can really Jomp.

Happy Bell Biv DeValentine's Day! (a.k.a. - MasterFreak Theatre)

True love is in the air. But it can be a very confusing emotion. Luckily, when it comes to matters of the heart, one can always turn to poetry and find reflections of their innermost thoughts and feelings.

And who better to shed a little swanky, red-light on the subject than a trio of romantics. Am I speaking of Blake, Shelley and Keats? No, fool! I’m talkin’ ‘bout three boys who really know what true romance is all about….getting’ yo freak on.

I’m talking about Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins and Ronnie DeVoe….better known as Bell Biv DeVoe. And now ya know.


Slick, Biv and R.D. begin their lesson of lust in a poem known simply as “Poison.” As we all know, before one can freak, one must mack, which is the equivalent of a peacock showing his plumage to a potential mate. Mack correctly, and a freak will surely follow. But you can’t just freak on anyone. There has be a connection that’s deeper than simply “getting up in dem guts.” Let’s read from Ricky Bell’s first verse.

“It's oh, so (beautifuuuuuuuuul)
Relationships they seem from the start
It's all so (deadllllllllly)
When love is not together from the heart”

How true, young Ricky. How very true. Pick the wrong ho and you could be entering into what psychologists refer to as a “toxic relationship.” The girl is your poison. P-P-poison. Next, the former New Edition lads pontificate on what happens when this poison enters your bloodstream. It goes straight to your heart.

“It's drivin' me out of my mind!
That's why it's hard for me to find
Can't get it out of my head!
Miss her, kiss her, love her
Wrong move you're dead.
That girl is POISOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

And in their most revelatory line, the boys let us in on a little secret that it took me years to learn.

“Never trust a big butt and a smile.”

If only I had followed this mantra in my younger years, I might have not fallen into the deadly trap of a “low pro ho” who was “cut like an aaa-fro.” Only now can I see that she was simply “schemin on house, money and the whole show.”

The un-whack wordsmiths also preach of the importance of brotherhood. If the subject of our poem had only heeded the words of his friends, he would have been able to avoid the entire ordeal. Observe.

“But I know she's a loser (How do you know?)
Me and the crew used to do her!”

Oh, DeVoe! Why didn’t I take your advice to heart? If the entire crew fornicated with this young fly girl, what could possibly make me think I could change her? For she is clearly poison….and there is no antidote.

Then, one sweet day, you'll fight your way through the throngs of fly, yet fatal honeys, and you might be able to find that one dope girl that stands out from the rest. And when you do, you can read her a passage from Bell Biv Devoe’s second most famous work. Sit her down, look her in the eyes and say the three little words that every girl longs to hear….”Do me, baby.”

But it’s not always as simple as that. You have to know the girl is up to the task. Let’s read together from the first few stanzas of this literary masterpiece.

“Take a look at me
Tell me do you like what you see
Do you think you can
Do you think you can do me?

Kiss me pretty baby
Touch me all over
Girl, what makes you think you can do me
Do you think you can do me, girl?”

These questions are important. If she can’t keep up, you might give her a heart attack, or worse, you could risk having a less than stellar freaking experience. So, they offer some advice on what to do to maximize your freakiness.

“Girl, let your hair down
Take off your clothes and leave on your shoes
Would you mind if I looked at you for a moment
Before I make sweet love?”

Notice the tenderness. Ask your lady if you can gaze at her beauty, for which there is no comparison. Then freak the shit out of her.

Also, feel free to whisper other sweet nothings into her various orifices, such as:

“I like to do the wild thing”

And…

“Oh,,.come on and sweat me.”

Also, let her know it’s not all about you. You’re flexible enough that you can freak her at different hours of the day. Women love to know that a man is taking their needs into account before they flick the freak switch to the “on” position.

“Do me, baby (I like it in the morning time, yeah)
Do me, baby (Sometimes I love it in the evening, baby, yeah)
Do me, baby (Can you do me all over, girl, yeah, yeah)”

Once things get going, you’re going to need to know exactly what actions to take. Luckily, B.B.D. offers these detailed tips on how to please a woman.

“Smack it up.
Flip it.
Rub it down.
Oh, noooooo.”

Sounds simple enough, right? Just be sure to follow their instructions in that order. I can’t tell you how many times my lovemaking has been hindered by the fact that I rubbed it down first, then proceeded to flip it. By the time I was going to smack it up, she had fallen asleep.

But, if all goes well, the "Oh noooo." you hear is the precursor to a successfully timed climax and not the disappointing shout of premature new-jack-swingulation on your part.

But most importantly…

“Kinda wet, don't forget
The J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, y'all
I need a body bag.”

That’s right. Ricky, Michael and Ronnie want us to remember to always practice safe sex. Or possibly necrophilia on a guy named Jimmy. The lyrics are a little vague. But I like to think the body bag they’re referring to is that of the Magnum variety.

Well, I hope we’ve all learned a little something today. Stay away from toxic hoes and make sweet love whenever you can, for the booty is as fleeting as time itself.

And if anyone would like to join my popular fan club, The Bell Biv DeVotees, we meet every Tuesday night in El Bar, behind El Azteca.

I’d like to conclude with a practice that no early 90’s R&B jam would be complete without…the shout out.

“Yo' fellas, that was my end of bloggin.
You know what I'm sayin'?
Yeah, Rowdy Bowden in full effect
Yo', wassup to Jordo H and Southern Sports Dude.
And I can't forget about my boy, Bobby Brown and the whole New Edition crew.
Another Bad Creation for-eva!
Peace.
And I’m gone.”