The season of resolutions is long behind us, and not to get all Logged Hours on you, but in light of my St. Patrick's Day debauchery Kneecapped is going on the wagon until April 18th. I'm working on my second day, but stay tuned for angry, alcohol deprived posts throughout next month!
And this is what it looked like after drinking it.Does anyone know? Because details are a little fuzzy. I know I had fun, but to what extent I have know idea.
I’m writing today about buybacks, free drinks, comps, or whatever else you call them. A buyback is when you’ve drank a few beers (usually three to four), have tipped for these beers (I’m talking a dollar per drink, minimum,) are in a real bar (not a swanky lounge or some lame place like that,) and the bartender gives you a free beer. Sometimes they knock on the counter and place a new pint of what you ordered; sometimes they’ll just say, “On me.” A nice dive bar I’ve written about turns over a shot glass and stacks it on your tip pile to signify that the next one is “on the house.” It’s a little thank you for the tipping and for spending $5 a beer when you can just walk next door and buy a six pack for $7, okay $10. Buybacks are good business. To make a long definition short, buybacks are fucking fantastic.
apparently we’re shit. I order my sixth beer when Ion orders his fifth. The bartender walks over and says looking to me, “ok I got yours,” turns to Ion, “yours will be five bucks.” Fucking balls. At least he smartened up with me, but the rocks on this fucking guy for not comping my friend at the same time. You need to buy five beers before you get a free drink! You can’t even enjoy a sixth beer. Ion never got his free beer that he earned and deserved, and we left the bar defeated.
Hey mister bartender, I've bought 6 beers without a buyback from you and I now think you are a douchebag. Actually, I thought you were a jerk after 4 beers, but this proves my point.
Sorry for the lack of posting and I won’t belittle you with lame excuses like complaining about “working too much” or some dumb shit. I haven’t posted, period. I feel lousy about and I’m sorry.
A few weeks ago I said I was going on a diet: no beer for one month, working out four times a week, and no more cigarettes ever. I also said I would post my progress on this here site. Well, it didn’t work out how I planned. Not only have I not been posting every Friday, but my “diet” failed miserably.
The beer fast lasted, oh, three hours. I went out the night of that post, suckling down those Modelos in the process. The next weekend, I went to the Beer on the Pier which as you may have already guessed consisted of drinking lots and lots of beer. I came to the realization that I can’t get beer out of my life, nor do I want to. Are these the rationalizations of a burgeoning alcoholic? Probably.
The working out didn’t materialize like I’d hoped either. I’ve done yoga twice in the last three weeks, which averages out to .67 times per week, a hair below my goal of 4 times per week. My walk to the subway is a mile long so I do walk 2 miles a day for my commute. Does this sound like the rationalizing of a burgeoning lazy piece of shit? Probably.
And to complete the failure, I've had the occasional cigarette in this time period as well. The smoking I'll quit by purchasing some Nicorette this weekend. It’s the goal I’d like to accomplish most of all. Does this sound like the rationalizations of someone fooling themselves? Probably.
In summation my current condition can still be summarized by this video.
See, I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned (fourth item) my college’s reputation. A degree from UMass doesn't mean what it used, that was the message sent from high above Massachusetts government. Now, it looks to be the end of an era of raging alcohol abuse on the Amherst campus. And it couldn't have happened at a better time, with me a good six years removed from that little town in western Mass, with an student to asshole cop ratio of about 100/1 (Amherst cops are bigger dicks than your average state trooper. I'm a law abiding citizen but my opinion of them will never change.)
Last night was a “thank god I still have my wallet, cell phone, and bag” kind of night. Bruises cover my body from some late night fisticuffs with my friend outside the Winter Garden, but that’s what happens after you see Jackass. I passed out awkwardly on the couch after eating a leftover fish sandwich from Maggie Browns while trying in vain to focus on Wedding Crashers which was playing on the television. When I woke, the fish sandwich, content with its brief four hour stay in my stomach, resurfaced, this time accompanied with beer and stomach acid. So that’s why I had the quick youtube post earlier. But I’m feeling mildly better now and have a new mission.
I’m going into training (stop laughing.) Exercise at least 4 times per week. No beer for one month. No more cigarettes, ever. I will chart my progress in this space. All of my successes, relapses, and boredom will be documented here. The hardest part will be the beer, followed closely by exercise, and then smoking. I enjoy the occasional beer and there’s really no way I’ll make it the whole month, but I’ll try. Although, I have five cold Modelos waiting for me when I get home, and who is supposed to drink those? Every Friday for the next 4 weeks I’ll post my progress, or more likely, lack there of, for your reading pleasure. Wish me luck
Here's a before video, and in 4 weeks you'll get the after.
Let's open the olde mail box and answer a rare letter, er, email. If you want to participate and have your email shown on our forum send it here: kneecapped@gmail.com
"Ever since going daily your posts pretty much suck balls. Why don't you just write when you have a funny story to tell or some news to report? Or why don't you go out and do things so you can write about interesting stuff instead of commenting on Yahoo! articles, the definition of Thursday, and Wikipedia? Don't you have better ways to spend your time? Your review of the Flaming Lips concert was despicable, 8 words!"
Stanley, Glenn Falls, NY
Thanks, Glen and a humble apology. The reason is because, mainly, I've been drunk. By the time I post mid-afternoon, scrambling for ideas, I'm down to the last sip of my 1/5 liter of SoCo. I like to chase that with 7Up, because 7Up is all natural. Then, in order to wash the booze smell off my breath and the taste of 7Up off my tongue I chase
The crippling strain of maintaining a daily blog has taken a toll on my psyche, no doubt. It has stretched my writing thinner than a hipster on a coke binge. But because of you, Glen, I’ll search high and low for amusing anecdotes to share with my small and uncomfortably critical, yet obsessive readership. I OWE this to you, my fans. With every fiber in my body a swear I will find the strength to write at least 100 – 150 words on the Backpack Kid A.K.A. Cheesy Mustache Guy that I promised you YESTERDAY. Thanks for reading, Glen, and for prying open my eyes, forcing me to acknowledge the dark, sulfuric depths that this blog is plummeting towards.
Knee
Tonight is the start of the NFL season, but it also marks the beginning of another season, the Trying to Stay Married season. Other than moving and maybe in-laws, nothing puts more stress on a marriage than the six month pro-football calendar. Tonight, I start my second post-marriage season, and I'm looking to build on last year's results.
My wife can tolerate football, but she's not setting the Tivo, signing up for Direct TV, or checking her fantasy line-ups. She doesn't have a lot of knowledge about the game, and to tell you the truth, I like that about her. So I'm starting out ahead of the curve. The trouble is sometimes it's me she can't tolerate. Now, I'm not going to stop watching football all day long on Sunday, but there are little things you can do to keep the pressure off yourself. So here are a few things I learned last year, as well as a few pointers to those who are beginning their rookie year.
1) Don't get (too) drunk - I don't have Direct TV (see above) and I root for a team outside of the area where I live. My team is the Patriots which makes things easier because they're awesome and they get a lot of nationally televised games. One year, I caught them here in New York about 7 - 8 times on free television, not bad. But for the other games I head out to a local bar with Direct TV and watch the games there. This is a problem for several reasons. I drink fast so the number of beers I can drink during a three hour period is substantial. If it's an early game I’m pretty much useless the rest of the day until The Simpsons come on. If it's a late game, then I'm drunk during dinner and that's not good, trust me. I learned early on that I need to pace myself. No Bloody Mary's (well, one, but only if you’re hungover.). No Stella (or other strong beers.) Drink some water. Eat a pizza. Eat some wings. Eat. Three beers max in the first half. This is a recipe for success, a good buzz, but nothing that will last the day. I'd advise the same thing to you.
2) Take advantage of Saturday - I don't care about college football so I plan for my Sunday's by taking advantage of Saturday. Go see a movie. Go apple picking. Take in a museum. Have a nice dinner in a restaurant of your wife’s choosing. Pay. Make Saturday your wife's day. Not only does it feel good that you're making your wife happy, but it buys you some leeway when you're still wearing your sweatpants at 7:00 PM on Sunday night.
3) Shower, get dressed, look active - Note my sweatpants comment above and don't make a habit out of it. Nothing makes you feel like a useless piece of crap more than the look your wife gives you when you've sat around the apartment all day in your sweatpants. Save the sweatpants for that cold and rainy Sunday. Maybe even encourage you wife to put on some comfortable clothes and watch football together. No one’s saying get rid of the sweatpants, just play that card at the right time.
4) If Monday night or Sunday night football blows and your team isn't playing don't stay up and watch the whole thing - This would be my rule even if I wasn't married. The Sunday/Monday night commercial marathon that happens to show a football game in-between car ads sucks the life out of you. It bores you and angers you. You contemplate killing the play by play announcer by beating him with your bare hands. Forces you to go to bed past 1:00 AM. More than half the time these games are a disappointment anyway so just go to bed and spend that time with your wife. I’m not saying watch Desperate Housewives, but it’s a long season and you don’t want to waste your good graces watching a typical night game suckfest. I don't care if you call me lame, or old, or a pussy whipped little bitch, this is how I roll.
5) These rules do not count towards the playoffs - Playoffs are a different matter altogether. I’ll get drunk at the bar in my sweatpants during the playoffs.
Thanks to Open Eyed Sneeze for the kind comments on my last post. I was thinking about that beer pong post before I went to bed last night, wondering how most people who read it probably think I’m a recent college grad killing time before I start my real job, sewing my royal oats if you will. No, that’s not the case. I’m 28, have a job, an apartment, a wife even. Is it sad that I’ll still play a game of beer pong on special occasions? Definitely not.
Then I read today’s Metro and it made me reassess my life choices, mainly drinking alcohol. Then after about 2 seconds of assessment I said, "screw it, why stop now." I’m glad the author is so comfortable in her own skin, I just hope she doesn’t push for prohibition because these days all it takes is one whiney bitch to ruin it for the rest of us (i.e. Bloomberg, Smoking).
For example, the Milwaukee Brewers mascot, Bernie the Brewer, can’t even slide into a beer mug after a Brewers’ home run. Check the before and after photos on the left and note the lack of a beer mug in the second photo. They’re the fucking Brewers for Christsake!
This overly sensitive bullshit is slowly strangling the joy out of living in this county. Maybe Felice Cohen would be happy if we were all lobotomized walking corpses smiling our way through our insignificant lives. Maybe I would like to have a beer. I'm sick of everyone sanitizing every-tiny-little-thing-we-do-so-we-don't-hurt-any-ones-feelings-and-won't-someone-please-think-of-the-children-I-don't-like-it-so-you-shouldn't-be-allowed-to-do-it-either thing out there. I didn't move to the suburbs for a reason. It's nonsense. Idiocy. Totalitarian.
And not to nitpick, but there aren’t any doctors, drunk or sober, to find a cure for Parkinson’s. That's just a stupid comparison.
The human body is capable of amazing things when pushed to the limit. Stories of women getting the strength to lift automobiles off there trapped husbands, or the incredible man who cut off his arm with a Swiss army knife to avoid certain death, exemplify the will humans have to survive and succeed. On Friday night I too encountered this will. I won 20 games of beer-pong in a row.
What started out as an innocent and chilly night in Maine quickly morphed into a beer-pong tour de force not seen since the winter of 2000. Now six years older and far removed from my beer-pong playing peak I was touched by greatness once again, this time reaching heights I dared not dream. Winning 20 games in a row.
By win number fifteen I had lost the ability to speak full, intelligible, and lucid sentences, relying mostly on grunts and high-fives to get my point across. Trash talk was out of the question, but when you’re on a winning streak like this one, your shot does all the talking. It was clear that my brain was cutting off my oral capacities and re-routing that energy into my right arm while still saving a little leftover for vision.
By the end of the night my shirt was soaked with beer, my hands were pruned from repeatedly cleaning the ping-pong ball, and we were one cup away from immortality. I squinted hard focusing on the red plastic cup a mere 12 feet away and with a flick of the elbow released my final shot of the night. It flew through the air in a perfect arc heading directly into the middle of the cup, finally landing silently on beer foam. Victory.
There were only 12 or so people there to witness the feat, but in time that number will grow. Everyone will claim to be present on that crisp, late summer, Maine night when the unthinkable happened. The human body is truly amazing.
Slumming It. Once a proud phrase describing those daring, radical, rich, and affluent members of our society willing to go against the grain and live amongst the lowly, yet surprisingly hip and trendy commoners. They smoked and drank in Harlem during the jazz age. In the 70s and 80s they blew coke with the artists in SoHo. Finally, they drank Pabst in the Lower East Side of the 90s and early 2000s. But for anyone who’s eaten at Schiller’s or fought through the Friday night Ludlow Street crowds the days of the LES as slum are over, with this soon to be opened gym as the death knell. Brooklyn looks to fill this new void, but can you still "slum it" in Manhattan? Being both rich and affluent, last Friday I decided to give it a try.
I started after a late day at work by heading to The Blarney Stone, 32nd Street, Herald Square. When you walk into this long dimly lit bar the first thing you notice is the humidity, the next is the smell. It’s not a bad smell but combined with the humid air makes for a unique odor. The reason for this are the steam trays that keep the food at the lunch station (luke) warm. Meats, gravies, sandwiches, mac n’ cheese served on cafeteria style trays that you carry to your table or to the bar. But I didn’t come here to eat, that comes later, I came here to drink and with the size of the bar you always can find a place to sit. Pints of Bud and Bud Light are $4.00 and the top rate bartenders buy back every 4th beer. Yes, this is a bar for drinkers. From a trendy and hip standpoint the bar ranks low, so now’s your chance to get in on the ground floor.
After my free 4th beer I headed out to meet my wife. She was walking down form 51st & 8th, so I said I’d get together with her on 8th Ave and go for a drink wherever we happened to meet. This couldn’t have worked out any better. We met at Port Authority (Yes, I walk fast) and went into McAnn's. McAnn's is actually a bar that I know well from my time living in Weehawken (a slumming it column of it’s own) and the time I came down for New Year’s in a blizzard and was stranded in POA for a good 4 hours. That particular night lead to a stay at the Plaza, but that too is another story.
When it comes to seediness Port Authority cannot be beat, and McAnn’s holds that torch proudly. This bar also features cheap Bud and Bud Lights as well as bright lighting and no hipsters. It’s more of a bridge and tunnel crowd, or more accurately, a tunnel crowd. Potential hip-ness is an absolute zero, but in this ironic age isn’t a zero really a 6? The highest rating any hipster could possibly give something.
It was after another three Bud drafts that I realized I probably should have eaten some mac n’ cheese at the Blarney Stone and we headed out to find some food. We could’ve walked west to Hell’s Kitchen, but if your slumming it from Port Authority you walk due east into the belly of the beast, Time Square.
Where to go to put an exclamation point on this night of slumming? Franchise restaurants. Franchise restaurants depress me, although I do have a soft spot for them, and are a perfect way to end the night. ESPN Zone, too classy. Olive Garden, too many bread sticks. TGIFriday’s, too much flair. No, instead we went to TGIFriday’s ugly little step daughter, Applebee’s. Needless to say, my wife was thrilled.
