IndieMatty
11-07-2005, 11:53 AM
I just wrote this real quick, because its exactly what my night was last night; figured I'd post it here. I'm not much of a writer...anyway this is the baller lifestyle of a young, succussfel new york city "yuppie". Glamorous no?
It's the waning hours of the weekend. Sunday evening. The random sleep patterns from the preceding days combined with the 11 AM drinking that is necesary before the three hour act of sadism that is watching Jets football, have completely thrown you from a normal routine. Somehow you have forgotten you may want to eat an actual meal today instead of malted hops and nicotine. The only problem is your manly soap opera "Rome" is on in 30 minutes and you have exhausted all the quick options within a 3 block radius that do not have a damning documentary based on them or an annoying spokesmodel who swears that the secret to weight loss involves 18 inches of hoagie per day.
At that moment you remember how jealous you were of your friend who tried the new Taco joint in Brooklyn. "I want Mexican" you speak aloud. Now you're alone and briefly ponder if your stomach heard you and if so does it agree? The little rumble gives you the answer. There is a great burrito place about a mile away. You go to the website to find the exact location. You look at the clock. You look at the picture of the burrito. Clock. Nachos. Clock. Tacos with extra sour cream. The decision is easy.
You grab your portable music device, slap on some running shoes and with 27 minutes you make a mad dash for the door. Sprinting up Broadway, your mind begins to percolate, in your ears is "The National" but you're only hearing the end song from Ferris Buellers Day Off and looking around for a trampoline to vault over the baby carriages parked in front of the family style Italian joint. Thoughts of Franco Harris and OJ (not the murdering OJ, but the sweet stepping, spin moving OJ) creep into your minds eye as you high step over the median separating one of Manhattans most picturesque avenues.
You run down Broadway, plotting your attack down the avenues. Trying to ignore any stop sign or light on this quiet Sunday evening. You pass down Restaurant row; the outside diners are probably enamored with a man of your size going for a late evening jog. Little do they know of the cab ride back and the 2000-calorie meal you so desperately crave.
The streets are empty; you need to make a move to Amsterdam Avenue soon, because your fantastic short-term memory has forgotten the actual cross street. The light turns red on 84th and you know this is the time to make your cut, you run a little faster and then out of the corner of your eye you see a familiar face---a man with a beautiful women on his arm. Is that Alec Baldwin? You slow down a little to take it in. Yes, Alec Baldwin is strolling past you. One of your favorite people on Earth has just passed you by. But the burrito beckons. You back peddle past him and scream "You're Awesome" wait for some acknowledgement that never comes and continue on your way. You spend the rest of the jog thinking of how you could have said something wittier. An obscure State and Main reference, anything from Glengarry Glen Ross other than "Always Be Closing". Anything. Hell you didn't even mention how you grew up in the same Long Island town. You call yourself an idiot and realize what's done is done and decide that Carne Asade is really the only way to go.
But what the...Where the [censored] is the Burrito place? You've run from 84th to 79th, there is no Burrito place in site. Would the website lie? Impossible, the Internet doesn't lie. Is it closed? What can you do? Do you ask someone? No you cannot. There is nothing more pathetic than an out of shape sweaty man asking for directions to the burrito joint. You retrace your steps to run back up Amsterdam. "Sure you must have missed it." Before you know it you have retraced your steps all the way back up to your apartment, confused and bewildered, you realize you have 9 minutes till HBO and an empty stomach. You do what any other rational being would do in this situation. You hang your head in shame as you enter into the Golden Arches and hope that they have some fajitas left.
It's the waning hours of the weekend. Sunday evening. The random sleep patterns from the preceding days combined with the 11 AM drinking that is necesary before the three hour act of sadism that is watching Jets football, have completely thrown you from a normal routine. Somehow you have forgotten you may want to eat an actual meal today instead of malted hops and nicotine. The only problem is your manly soap opera "Rome" is on in 30 minutes and you have exhausted all the quick options within a 3 block radius that do not have a damning documentary based on them or an annoying spokesmodel who swears that the secret to weight loss involves 18 inches of hoagie per day.
At that moment you remember how jealous you were of your friend who tried the new Taco joint in Brooklyn. "I want Mexican" you speak aloud. Now you're alone and briefly ponder if your stomach heard you and if so does it agree? The little rumble gives you the answer. There is a great burrito place about a mile away. You go to the website to find the exact location. You look at the clock. You look at the picture of the burrito. Clock. Nachos. Clock. Tacos with extra sour cream. The decision is easy.
You grab your portable music device, slap on some running shoes and with 27 minutes you make a mad dash for the door. Sprinting up Broadway, your mind begins to percolate, in your ears is "The National" but you're only hearing the end song from Ferris Buellers Day Off and looking around for a trampoline to vault over the baby carriages parked in front of the family style Italian joint. Thoughts of Franco Harris and OJ (not the murdering OJ, but the sweet stepping, spin moving OJ) creep into your minds eye as you high step over the median separating one of Manhattans most picturesque avenues.
You run down Broadway, plotting your attack down the avenues. Trying to ignore any stop sign or light on this quiet Sunday evening. You pass down Restaurant row; the outside diners are probably enamored with a man of your size going for a late evening jog. Little do they know of the cab ride back and the 2000-calorie meal you so desperately crave.
The streets are empty; you need to make a move to Amsterdam Avenue soon, because your fantastic short-term memory has forgotten the actual cross street. The light turns red on 84th and you know this is the time to make your cut, you run a little faster and then out of the corner of your eye you see a familiar face---a man with a beautiful women on his arm. Is that Alec Baldwin? You slow down a little to take it in. Yes, Alec Baldwin is strolling past you. One of your favorite people on Earth has just passed you by. But the burrito beckons. You back peddle past him and scream "You're Awesome" wait for some acknowledgement that never comes and continue on your way. You spend the rest of the jog thinking of how you could have said something wittier. An obscure State and Main reference, anything from Glengarry Glen Ross other than "Always Be Closing". Anything. Hell you didn't even mention how you grew up in the same Long Island town. You call yourself an idiot and realize what's done is done and decide that Carne Asade is really the only way to go.
But what the...Where the [censored] is the Burrito place? You've run from 84th to 79th, there is no Burrito place in site. Would the website lie? Impossible, the Internet doesn't lie. Is it closed? What can you do? Do you ask someone? No you cannot. There is nothing more pathetic than an out of shape sweaty man asking for directions to the burrito joint. You retrace your steps to run back up Amsterdam. "Sure you must have missed it." Before you know it you have retraced your steps all the way back up to your apartment, confused and bewildered, you realize you have 9 minutes till HBO and an empty stomach. You do what any other rational being would do in this situation. You hang your head in shame as you enter into the Golden Arches and hope that they have some fajitas left.