Threesomes I would like to be a part of…

The other night, I was watching “Stripes” on the AMC. I have seen this movie several times, and as I was watching Bill Murray and Harold Ramis get ready to jump into action with the hot MPs, I was thinking, “Wow, those two together are like the perfect man—Ramis is all nerdy and smart but still cute, and Murray is the impish little scamp who will pick your pocket, then buy you flowers.”

It got me thinking about threesomes. Here are a few combinations that I would like to participate in:

  • Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are together for reals, but they are both crazy hot, especially in that Woody Allen jerkoff film, “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” I would like to jump into that action per Scarlett Johansson’s place—she was just really a cum-rag in that movie anyway.
  • Gina Gershon and anybody else.
  • Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt—I think this would actually be pretty mediocre, but selling the hidden camera footage and the pics alone would buy me enough whiskey, baked Cheetos and real estate for the rest of my days.
  • Drew Barrymore and her next boyfriend. I’m not fucking that Apple dude. He sucks, so Ms. Barrymore? Pony up and get a better boyfriend.
  • Bjork and Beck…Things would get soooo freak-ay!
  • Barack and Michelle. Come on, like you never thought of it. I think it’s really awesome that, maybe for the first time in history, we actually have a First Couple we’d want to bang!
  • George Clooney and a mirror. I bet he makes really great poses to himself when he’s doing the deeds.
  • Robert Pattinson and Zac Effron. I like cradle-robbing—and I think Pattinson is just hot enough to convince Effron to do a chick.
  • Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams because they are so adorable!
  • I’m a Cubs fan, and I have to say, that during their entire dismal season, I imagined myself in a Mike Fontenot/Ryan Theriot sandwich. Not only can I not pronounce their last names–which is key to any good threeway–but it’s not like they’re busy or anything right now. Call me!

I am suffocating in a Sea of Preciousness

A couple years ago, Gawker posted a great piece on “Brooklyn’s Most Precious Neighborhoods” that featured Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and Park Slope—indeed three of the most twee and fairyland-like neighborhoods in existence in the entire history of humankind, filled with overpriced coffeeshops and kids stores that sell $150 dresses for two-year-olds.

If you’ve watched HBO’s new series, “Bored to Death” you know what I’m talking about. I really wanted to like that TV show because I enjoy some of Jonathan Ames’ writing, but alas, I cannot, as the protagonist, played by the Jason Schwartzman, is just another fucking NYC manchild pussy who will whine to you about needing to be held, but doesn’t know the first thing about how to find your clit. The neighborhoods in that show? That is Precious Brooklyn.

Anyway, I have been a resident of Precious Brooklyn for over four years now! Am I more precious? Hardly. Why do I live there? Because it’s that, or suffer the concrete dog shitpark that is Bushwick or similar up north, where the hipsters pass the Pabst and HPV freely. So, I choose to exist among a few Stroller Moms and Hot Dads in lieu of Leotards and Beards. It’s quiet and, aside from a few moments, fairly peaceful.

I’ve noticed, however, that in the last year or two my neighborhood is becoming evermore precious. This is a feat I never thought possible, but alas, there it is. Here are just a few things that send me into a semi-rage these days:

  • More poncy clothes stores. Yes, they’ve always been there, but there seem to be more of them selling $200 Jellies—i.e. the disgusting, uncomfortable, do-not-breathe footwear from the ’80s. Also, I hate Bird. I think I’ve been in there twice and the girls are complete bitches when they should be kissing my ass because I am their target demographic—i.e. young, thin, and I like to buy pretty dresses. So, fuck you, Bird. Get out.
  • Trader Joe’s is too far away. It just is.
  • Ok, American Apparel is everywhere. Fine. (Disclosure: I like their T-shirts.) But the Precious Halloween-y setup they have going on now in the display window? Fucking “Grease.” Now, I know that the soundtrack to “Grease” or thoughts of “Grease” or even the opening to “Summer Nights” sends 19-year-old girls into a pre-orgasmic state that often leads to keg stands and group singalongs, but it doesn’t take a whole lot to excite someone who’s never given more than two proper BJs in her life. Take down that fucking display already.
  • Faux speakeasies. Oh, wow. Can I go to a place that’s really new construction that is distressed to look like it’s really old and have wannabe-actors in white pressed shirts and bow ties and vests and cumberbunds serve me overpriced rye whiskey and amaretto in tiny glasses for $13 a pop? See Bird above.
  • Friday and Saturday nights. My ’hood has turned into the new LES/Meatpacking area. Dickbags from State Island and Jersey come hooting through, tromping up and down Smith St., teetering on their heels in trashy outfits, yelling, vomiting and driving up the prices for all of us. Amateurs.
  • Bouncers. Really? You’re a place on Smith St. and you need a velvet rope and big black guy?

On a side note, I have yet to see “Where the Wild Things Are”—in fact, I may never see it—because a friend warned me that it may be too precious for my tastes. Lately, it seems that I am suffocating in a Sea of Preciousness—from bands, to clothes, to movies, to pop culture. Am I the only one?

(Ed. Note: Listened to AC/DC while composing. No kittens or puppies were harmed during this rant.)

Crazy train

Now, I can’t always be all spit and vinegar and gasoline. And today, despite the gorgeous weather outside, I’m a little low.

I got a massage last night. Apparently, my back is so fucked up from years of neglect and sporting activities and not stretching—I hate to stretch, it’s boring, so I don’t do it, which is bad, I know—and now I have to deal with it.

So I went to a recommended place to have some 110-pound Korean woman bust me up. And man did she kick the shit out of me. I mean elbows digging in, bending my arms back over my head, etc. But I needed it, and it felt good at the end when she was done pummeling me. So, after a nice long night of sleep, I woke up sore but also feeling all right—you know, on the mend.

Then I got on the subway.

I hate the subway. Seriously. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t miss driving or dealing with a car, but getting inside that moving toilet for an hour a day is a soul-sucking experience. You have to put up with a lot of shit—sometimes literally—in this town. I’ve accidentally stepped in someone’s vomit, watched assholes pick their noses and then grab a pole—I even saw two people fucking on a stopped V Train at the Second Ave. stop one night, which by the way, is the stop I detest most in the city. Always, always with the urine smell! I’ve watched a schizo throw around his bucket of tools and threaten to beat up everyone on the train; I’ve seen a kid throw another kid’s head into a seat, blood go everywhere.

I have an acquaintance who once saw an obese woman chowing down on rotting mussels on the train during the a.m. rush—“I’ve been waiting to eat these mussels all week!” she screamed as she sucked them out of their shells, mussel juice running all over. Another person saw a homeless person taking a full-fledged dump on the train platform. Actually, I know a few people who’ve seen this.

It’s a toxic place. My friend who visited last winter said, “Fuck public transportation. If I had to take that thing every day I’d go fucking crazy.”

This morning some Mom started screaming at a lady for not covering her nose when she sneezed. “You gonna get my kid sick! My kid is 8, and even she knows to cover her face when she sneezes!” Despite the freakout factor—and the yelling—I must say I take Mom’s side on this. Disgusting people of the world, cover your damn noses and mouths when sneezing or coughing. But it was this incident that escalated into some shouting bullshit—easily not the worst I’ve see by any margin—and I could literally feel the benefit of last night’s massage draining away.

I was never one for all this “energy” talk—what you suck in and put out—until the last year or so. In fact, if I’m not listening to music, I’m a big fan of peace and quiet. And while living in NYC can be many things—Energetic! Entertaining!—it certainly can’t be called one thing—nice. Living here is not nice.

The question is, you either learn to deal—or you don’t. And all the yoga/meditation/massages in the world seem to provide some temporary relief but not much more. I got a massage a couple years ago, and the lady said she got “images or messages” about people she was touching from time to time. So, when we were done, she asked me, “Do you smoke? Cause I saw you smoking a lot when I grabbed your foot.” At the time, I was like, “Um, yeah.” And then, also, “Did you ever play Robin Hood or a forest-type creature in a play as a kid?” Um, no. “Uh, that’s strange,” she said. “Because I see you in the woods.”

So the question is: How much is You vs. Your Environment? I guess I’ve been weighing these two for a while and am interested in hearing how other people cope.

10 Things I Hate About Porn

A week or two ago I went to the Vivid 25th anniversary party and DVD giveaway sponsored by some kind of crappy gin. Now, I love Vivid, even if they are kinda the Wal-Mart of porn—very bottom-shelf Middle America, but hey, you can always find something you want in there if you look hard enough.

Plus, Vivid has just been really, really nice to me. Their PR woman is this adorable little grandma who just hands out free bags of porn, and she never forgets a name.

So, the day after the party, Roommate Jim and I both received this special 25th anniversary DVD that featured a lot of their famous scenes from pornos spanning the last three decades. Hoo-rah! I was running short on material. This was just what I needed—and I didn’t even have to pay for it!

“What’d you think of the porn?” I asked Roommate Jim the next day.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “It sucked! I kept just skipping scenes to the next one, trying to find a decent one.”

“Me too!” I said, then paused. “I like that both of us have had this porn less than 24 hours, and we’ve both screened it.”

That said, we’re a class bunch over here on Douglass St., and back in the day, I used to be a critic of sorts. There’s stuff about porn that has always bothered me, so I decided to put my little asshole critic hat back on and do some fucking criticizing.

Here, I present, 10 Things I Hate About Porn:

  1. The men. I have come to peace with the over-gelled hair, the disgusting Golds Gym muscled-up bodies and the bad tattoos. But, as I watching “Debbie Does Dallas Again,” I noticed in a three-couple scene, which was supposedly shot in hell, that while some meathead was jizzing all over some chick’s back—he had on white tennis shoes and white athletic socks. Really? In hell? Take your fucking shoes and socks off.
  2. Shaved balls.
  3. Titty slapping. I was watching a girl-on-girl scene and one chick just kept slapping the other girls’ titties. Now, suck ‘em, lick ‘em, massage ‘em around, but I swear to God if anyone slapped my titties? They’d have an ass-kicking coming.
  4. Spitting. I know that this is lube in a pinch—and a damn good one at that. But there’s a way to do it without sounding like you’re in the fourth quarter of the NBA finals. Tone it down, square on your target and just let that spit slide—quietly—you don’t need to act like you’re taking someone’s eye out with it.
  5. Bad boob jobs. Dimples, ripples, rumples. Yep, gross.
  6. Angry fuckers! I mean not excited, like, “Yeah! I’m getting pummeled by some big dick!” No, like screaming, yelling, angry like you’re gonna rip someone’s head off. I once listened to a roommate fuck her boyfriend, screaming, “Come on! Come on! Come on!” like they were, once again, in some sort of NFL playoff situation—she was literally berating him into an orgasm. Hey, you’re supposed to be happy! You’re getting fucked! Act like it!
  7. And watch it with that BJ face. A little goes a looonnngg way.
  8. Girls who pretend that sucking off dildos is like the real thing. Honey, it isn’t. And it never will be.
  9. Here’s some nitpicking. I watched a threesome on a teeny-tiny thin pathetic little blanket in an outside park with three women who looked uncomfortable as hell the whole time. Hey, Vivid, I know you had a better budget than this in the ’90s.
  10. Half hard-ons. Guys, I know it’s difficult and tiring, and the women are the Real Stars and it’s been a long, long day. But half-mast is still half-mast—and it’s a real buzz kill.

Got anything you hate about porn? Please leave in comments.

Smoking Vagina

When you were a little kid, did your school ever take a field trip to one of those science-type museums? And was there a room devoted to things, unusual and terrible and surprising, that medical science had pulled out of people? Like nails out of their brains, screws out of their stomachs, or pieces of glass out of their intestines? Amazing, wasn’t it?

I am forever fascinated with people shoving objects where they don’t belong. So, when I get any sort of ER docs or nurses round about the table, I love asking, “What’s the worst thing you’ve seen someone shove up themselves?”

I believe most have seen everything. I’ve heard tools, bottles, sticks. The worst? “A lightbulb,” someone once told me. “A lightbulb? How the hell did they get that in there without breaking?” I marveled. Now that shows some super-careful attention to lubing and working-it-in detail, and for that I salute, even if it is an incredibly dumb choice to begin with.

I, myself, am no stranger to putting things where they don’t belong. This is one such story:

I was living with this crazy redhead who waited tables. Now, he was hyper-active, played videogames constantly, chain-smoked and dubbed me “Mrs. Tits” because my boobs got really big around PMS time. Anyway, not the most stable of guys, but he would come home with a vibrator for me from time to time, which got me thinking.

One Sunday night, I was just kicking it around the apartment, waiting for him to get off work. I think I was well into a bottle of red wine or a few G&Ts and watching “The Sopranos,” you know, typical Sunday night stuff. And I was smoking and smoking because when I lived with the chain-smoker that’s what we did. After a while, I got bored with the typical cig-to-mouth activity and put it in my nose. I smoked like this for a while. Then I thought, “Where else can I put this?”

Well, pants came off and I’m sitting in front of the TV, attempting to smoke with my vagina. This is much harder than it looks, and if you’ve ever seen a stripper and/or porn star do it, tip heartily, because that is a display of some powerful muscle action. Alas, I wasn’t getting very far with my project when the boyfriend walked in.

“What in the fuck are you doing, Mrs. Tits?” he asked, then started laughing.

“I’m trying to smoke with my vagina,” I said and kept right at it.

Anyway, a few more minutes of trying I got tired of that game and said fuck it. We either had sex that night or I passed out, I can’t remember, but I do know it’s a trick I haven’t tried since, though I’m always open to trying new stuff—except for lightbulbs. That shit could hurt.

233A – The Real World Brooklyn, Part One

When I first moved to New York, I lived in a four-story brownstone in Brooklyn—with five other people. Now when I told most people this, their faces curled up in horror and bewilderment—“How can you live in a house with all those people?”

“It’s not that bad,” I’d say. “It’s four stories, it’s big, you only share a floor/bathroom with one other person. And everyone is respectful of everyone else, and we really all get along.”

Until Frenchie.

Now, I knew Frenchie was going to be trouble from the get-go. Our House Manager had just broken up with her boyfriend, who she’d been having a torrid back-and-forth with for a while, and when we were looking for a new roomie, and Frenchie showed up—who looked almost exactly like her recent ex—I knew he was moving in. I mean, it’s pretty fucked up to move someone into your house who looks exactly like your ex. And yeah, I’ve gone out with dudes just cause they looked like exes, but I wouldn’t fucking move one into my house.

Sure enough, within a week, Frenchie and her were smooching in the hallway, and I was thinking, this is not going to turn out good. For anyone.

Frenchie also happened to be a DJ/freelance set constructor/life coach. Arrogant and condescending, he’d listen to his shitty music at full volume, coat himself in some oily Eurotrash version of Axe and then disappear into the Village, only to bring some unsuspecting NYU student home for some banging. He’d also complain to the rest of us about the state of … Us. What ignorant, dumbass Americans we were. He was also cheap, which is never an attractive quality. During the summer, he bitched about the AC. “Don’t even think I’m paying extra money for that,” he scoffed. He’d look at our dishwasher and do the same. Then he’d refuse to buy toilet paper.

Then one night, he crossed the line. He asked me about bringing his Landmark Forum project folk into our house for a meeting. Now Landmark is one of those life-improvement pyramid schemes in which they convince weak-minded people to pay big money to, you know, snag that mate, score that real estate deal or start their own business through the power of positive thinking. Essentially, it’s The Secret, but you sit around with other people discussing The Secret and how only you are empowered with The Secret. “It’s just really changed my life and my outlook,” he told me. “Thinking positively will really change your life.”

There are not many things more annoying in this world than someone who actually enjoys listening and playing house music preach to you about empowering your life on a Friday at 7 p.m. when all you want to do is eat your big salad and watch “Scott Baio is 45 … and Single” in peace. But, as you are trying to foster a peaceful—in other words, “I know I gotta suck it up and put up with other people’s annoying bullshit” to live in New York, you have to sit there and nod and pretend that you’re really interested in this scam even though you have a real job and health insurance and are actually self-empowering yourself through $150-an hour psychotherapy, like normal, fucked-up people.

Then he asked if I made any extra salad for him. I ignored him and went back to Scott Baio.

Not surprisingly, about a month later, during the final financial boom times of New York in 2007, our landlord figured out that he could boot us and rent our pad for nearly twice as much. So he did. This is not uncommon in New York. Most people I’ve ran into have a similar yarn to spin—getting kicked out due to a 40 to 50 percent rent increase. But Frenchie sidled into our landlord, convinced him to let him take over managing our house so that he could live rent free. And lied to the rest of us about it as we scrambled to find new places to live.

The last night in the house, when all our garbage and shit was lying in the street for the trucks, I heard that motherfucker come home from DJing at 4 a.m. and start hauling that busted up furniture back into our house.

And that’s it. We all moved out. I only saw him once in the neighborhood after that, and he looked as smarmy as ever–if herpes had a look, he’d be it. But I do know this—be wary of anyone who starts preaching that life-improvement crap to you because they are probably one of the biggest lying dickbags you will ever run into.

In defense of men…

I traveled all the way to Washington Heights last night to see a friend of a friend do a DJ set. Now, this chick is way cool and a lesbian—and hence, is surrounded by lovely, supportive lesbian friends. So, it got me to thinking, is there something to this lesbian thing? I mean, for the most part, I think they’re pretty damn polite to one another and treat each other with respect, which are two of my biggest issue with guys—they can be really mean assholes quite often.

Anyway, this isn’t going to be another bitchfest about men. Honestly, I actually like—no I love guys—way more than chicks. I have a lot more male friends than female ones, because, at least on the friend-level, guys are so easy to hang out with—it’s all “let’s order some hot wings and beer and put some songs in the jukebox” easy.  Women, on the other hand, can be difficult, moody, needy and just a pain in the ass. There’s a lot of mental maintenance going on there.

But I can never switch teams because this is the deal—I love men. Like love them. So, like Maria Von Trapp in the Sound of Music, I’m going to list a few of my favorite things about guys, including some of the sexiest damn moments I’ve ever experienced:

  • You smell so good when you get out of the shower and you use really cheap shitty products that no woman would touch, like Coast or Irish Spring. And you are just covered in carcinogenic chemical goodness and you don’t care. I’ve purchased Coast soap to shower with it just so I can have that smell.
  • And then you smell so good when you’ve been outside, sweating a little too. And inside, if you’ve been sweating and fucking. I’ve left dirty sheets go a few weeks just to keep that.
  • When you act all manly like, like picking us up if we fall asleep on the couch and put us to bed? Yeah, that’s hot.
  • Boys who play guitar and the harmonica at the same time always does it for me. Perhaps I have a Dylan fetish, but it proves you can multitask—and that’s a good thing.
  • Flowers. Cliché, but true.
  • Grease under the fingernails.
  • If you have an “I’ve been attacked by a bear/shark” or similar story and survived with all your limbs.
  • If you can make coffee and eggs and wash dishes all shirtless and proud. Bonus points if you can do this while smoking.
  • Tattoos. But not stupid ones. You know the difference.
  • You don’t care how good we are at a sport–you don’t belittle us or tell us what to do. I played pool against a guy once, who asked me if I wanted to break. I said, “No, I’m a shitty breaker.” And he said, “Well, I guess we’ll just play a shitty game of pool.” Yea, pants came off.
  • Other lines? Turn to us at the bar all sexy, “Wanna close the bar with me?” Yes, yes, I want to.
  • I was once out with an ex who was being a total dickbag to me all night. I noticed a hot guy at the bar, checking me out and the situation. He could tell I was miserable. So, on the way out of the bar, he slipped me a matchbook with his number that said “for a rainy day.” Well, damn, if you’ve got confidence to hit on a chick when she’s out with another one in a non-dickhead way? Hot. That’s a good time to pick us up and remind us that we have other options.
  • Once had a guy take my underwear off with his teeth. Goddamn.
  • I like lighting fires, but I like watching you do it even more.
  • Buy condoms. You’d be surprised how many guys don’t do this. It’s inexcusable and lazy.
  • You’re a good driver—relaxed, confident. Usually means you’re good at other things too.

Ok, that be it for now. I’d really like to hear some other big Man Turn-Ons from some other folks. And here’s to everyone getting some this weekend.

A Dream Deferred…

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?–Langston Hughes

Sadly, I’ve given up on many a dream. As a kid, I wanted to a be a pro ice skater a la Dorothy Hamill. I also wanted to have long hair like Crystal Gayle, marry Bo Duke and David Hasselhoff from the Knight Rider years and Don Johnson from Miami Vice and somewhere along the line I thought it’d be a good idea if I became a lawyer.

Well, none of those things ever happened. But one dream—my dream of 2009—is about to die a lonely, cold death on the cruel black tops of Tompkins Square Park. And while it’s a far cry from what Langston Hughes had in mind, I feel like this dream—this very doable, reachable goal that started out a plump, juicy little grape—well, this dream has wilted and dried into a hardened, disgusting raisin, left out to face the frozen tundra of winter in lower Manhattan all by its lonesome.

It’s my dream of dirty, post-street hockey sex.

Yes, I had a dream. A dream of joining a street hockey league, where my Sundays would be filled with hate-filled high-sticking on the court and hard-sticking hate-fucking somewhere in the bar bathroom of Doc Holliday’s across the street. And today, as my team discusses offense and defense and so forth on our listserv pending the playoffs this weekend, I have come to the sad conclusion that unless a miracle happens—a miracle on Avenue A!—my dream of dirty, post-hockey sex will indeed go unfulfilled, unrealized.

Don’t let this happen. I’ll be the girl in the orange socks on Sunday.

‘I am riding a unicorn pulling a wagon full of rainbows…’

My friend Cheeseman and I had a little state of the union talk last night. Now, there’s no conceivable reason on earth why Cheeseman and I should be friends other than I like saying his last name—Cheese Man. He’s a conservative, white Republican who listens to UB40 and lives in a McCondo. But, here I am, years later, still rapping with the Cheese Man. I think it’s because, while he is a Republican twat on many issues, he is an adamant supporter of abortion and porn, which I can wholeheartedly get behind.

So, anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the state of the union, you know the whole, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-life talk? I took the summer off from figuring out what was next or making any goals, but now that the delicate leaves are turning crispy and golden and falling, and I’ve switched from clear to brown liquor, I have some life decisions I’ve put off that need to be back on the frontburner.

The whole point of this blog is trying and seeing if I like certain things. But I think it would help me if I would enumerate some of these goals. I need to focus. Here is a start:

  • Get a dog.
  • Get laid on a regular basis.
  • Travel a whole lot more, which means…
  • Ditching the day job and living the dream…
  • Of working full-time from home, or
  • Wherever I choose to live that will probably not be New York
  • Because I want a yard to put the dog in and have barbecues and hang out with friends
  • Who also like to go mountain biking, camping and all that outdoorsy shit that I miss because I live in a city of concrete where idiots wait in line to sit on a patch of grass in Central Park.

Whew. That wasn’t so hard? Now, I just gotta figure out the whole no-money, way-to-live-without-working bit. Baby steps, baby steps.

If I manage to make this happen it would indeed be like riding a unicorn through a pasture of rainbows for reals. Because I found that quote on someone else’s glorious supergay blog and goddammit, doesn’t it sound nice?

The night I almost banged Jewel’s boyfriend

I really despise Jewel. In the canon of chick singers who plagued the ’90s, she’s right up there with other forgettables like Meredith Brooks, Alannah Myles and that bitch with the piano on Ally McBeal.

And I never bought that whole starving artist, “living outta my van” story she was hawking either.

So I wasn’t that excited when my ex suggested we check out Jewel’s ex—Steve Poltz, or that skinny guy who dances around in her video for “You Were Meant for Me.” Poltz pulls this song out a lot at his gigs since he wrote it and makes cracks about Jewel—i.e. “writing her album (the pile of shit that is Pieces of You, btw) and being cast aside” but somehow the Jewel songs sound good when Poltz sings ’em, and he’s a capable, entertaining little guy. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the show. But I also decided that I wanted to sleep with him—i.e. get my rocks off with the double satisfaction of nailing an artist the ex admired. It seemed to be a win-win for everyone. Except the ex.

For some reason, I am really good at getting places where I have no business being—i.e. backstage, hotel suites, tour buses—so, if I’ve designated you a target for the evening, it’s probably on.

I sidled up to the bar after the show, placing myself just a barstool down from his buddy I saw him talking to earlier. I was wearing a Replacements T-shirt—and Poltz had covered a Mats tune earlier, so I knew he was a fan. Sure enough, Poltzy comes by, orders a Jameson and downs it.

“Hey, awesome shirt,” he says.

“Hey, awesome show,” I say.

He turns to bartender. “Can I get another Jameson’s?”

“I’ll buy that,” I say, slapping down a $20.

For the rest of the night, I sit and joke with him and his friends, drinking whiskey and beer. The bar shuts down, kicks us out and there’s talk of food. “Hey, you come with us,” Poltz says to me. “You’re cool.”

I’m sitting in a cab, between him and his friend and have one thought in my mind: It is so on.

We go to this diner. I’m sitting there with his buddy, drinking coffee, meanwhile, Poltz keeps getting calls on his cell phone, jumping up and pacing, and then going outside to talk. Then he comes back inside, then the phone rings, and it starts all over again. His friend is starting to act a little strangely. But still, no one says anything, and we go back to his apartment.

Once we get inside, it becomes apparent that Poltz is hammered. He heads right to the bathroom, pisses and walks out. I have to use it right after him, and I go in, “You can’t even flush?” I ask him. He gives me a “fuck it” look. I sigh, thinking, typical narcissistic singer/songwriter behavior.

I come back out, eyeballing the huge wine rack stacked floor to ceiling. “Hey, can we open some wine,” I ask his friend, starting to pull out bottles and looking at them.

“Oh, shit,” his friend says, running over. “Those are the good ones. This is my roommate’s stack, and if we open an expensive bottle he’s gonna flip. Here, this row, we can drink these.” So he pulls out a cheap white and opens it.

So, I’m sitting on some leather couch, drinking cheap white wine, and Poltz has disappeared. “Where’s Poltz?” I ask his friend. He shrugs. I find him in a bedroom, passed out on the bed. And I’m drunk, across town, and there’s no way I’m going home empty-handed, so I get on top of him and start jumping  up and down, trying to wake him up.

No go. He’s passed out or pretending to be. So I go back to the living room.

It’s about 4 a.m. and suddenly three girls come flying into the apartment with the missing roommate. The first one throws the door open and yells, “Where is he?”

Poltz’s buddy just points to the bedroom where Steve-O is passed out and the girl goes huffing and puffing toward it, slamming the door. Within a minute of that, the other two guys disappear with the other two girls in the other bedrooms. Doors slam, blam, blam.

I’m sitting on this leather couch in some leopard throw, drinking cheap white wine in a complete stranger’s house. At first I think, I should just go to sleep. And then I think about waking up, the strange girl, in this house the next morning.

Fuck that.

I get up and gather my stuff. I’m thinking there’s no way I’m going home empty-handed. I go over the wine rack and just start pulling bottles of wine—the expensive bottles I was told not to touch. I pull as many as I can carry in my arms and bolt.

Now, it’s January and the snow is like three-feet deep. I’m staggering through drifts of snow, balancing bottles of wine in my arms. I finally, finally get to a street that has cabs, hail one and climb into the backseat, rolling around and giggling with bottles of very expensive wine all the way home.

To this day, I still can’t listen to Steve Poltz. But damn was that some good wine.