Duck!
***A note on this post. I first heard the term silent assassin while watching Dennis Miller's HBO show. I give credit to him for the term...although I have no idea whether or not he actually originated it***
Assassin
Just so you know, the only guys who DO brag are guys who get no action. This is a natural law. The guys who get laid all the time don’t say peep. It’s the other guys who see them in action that brag for them. It's like telling another guy's sex stories somehow means they’ll rub off on you; paying homage to a God or something. You need to stay in the good graces of the masters. They’re called silent assassins. It is an amazing phenomenon. All guys have at least one of them in their circle of friends.
You all go out. Then you will all see THE GIRL. Every bar has a THE GIRL on any given night.
Anyway, we all start commenting on THE GIRL.
“Oh man, look at that girl dude!”
“She looks like (insert celebrity) but cuter”
“I would lick every inch of that girl” (Some guy always says this, and it privately makes everyone else uncomfortable)
“Jesus.” (That’s my ol’ standby)
Everyone comments…except the assassin. He busies himself with something else, ie: getting drinks, sees someone he knows(assassins always know somebody, they’re mini celebrities), finds a table, etc…
Then we all sit down and sneak peeks at her when we can, trying not to be busted by our friends. For some reason, it becomes embarrassing to get caught looking after the initial look, even though we are all doing it. Same rule applies to masturbation.
The assassin looks…I think, but he never gets caught by ANYBODY…not even strangers. There is an assumption that he must.
Then the night wears on…and one guy is hitting on a girl and two other guys are arguing about sports or politics or some fact from an old college story that they can’t agree on. After a couple hours, right at the witching hour(which is the hook up hour, usually 1:45 to 2 hours after the bar/party really got good), when the girls are on that drink that can either send them home or continue a conversation, the assassin strikes. But the thing is, you don’t see it. You don’t see him approach her, you don’t even see him look at her. It is just…like magic…you look up, look around, and there he is…talking to her as if they had been friends for years.
To describe the emotion that wells up in the rest of us when the assassin hits is difficult. There is plenty of jealousy, yes, but there is an awe and a respect that surpasses that. It takes us beyond hate or resentment. It leads to this conversation:
“I can’t believe he is going to hook up with that girl, dude.”
“Yeah…he’s the man.”
“He’s the man alright.”
“Jesus.”
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
AQUARIUS Wednesday, December 26th, 2007
You will lose your remote today.
The Bar
With the TV still on from the night before, I stumble and regret my way to the bathroom some ten feet away. As the dark yellowness of a dehydrated man falls to its death, I look through the crack in the fogged window, down to the street two stories below.
What are the people wearing today?
From the looks of their sleeves, it seems to be about 65 maybe even 70 degrees. Lovely. No, more than lovely. It's perfect. I really don't say lovely anyway. Lovely is for the Brits. And they only use it to sound British in front of Americans.
70 degrees is enough to shake my hangover. 90 degree shower water is the next step.
I lather and I rinse and all of the other shit. I don't waste time. I am not one to stand and contemplate the day. I get bored.
I can't help but appreciate the smells though. I have watermelon shampoo and apricot soap and glacier snow deodorant. We are more educated about these things now, aren't we? We know it needs to be natural. That doesn't mean I read the ingredients. If it says 'All Natural' below the picture of the pear tree, well, then I am just fine.
Out of the shower I am quickly into a bright yellow shirt (although today it is gold) and black baseball cap.
I look like a bumble bee with two chins and I smell like a bowl of fruit salad.
It's time to go to the bar.
I stand in my shirt sleeves and look through the neon beer sign at the bartender. The doors are chained still, so it is awkward that I am here. But there are territories to be established. The early bird gets the worm.
She giggles a bit. I am way too early. I won't always be this early, but today I am. Walking towards the gate, she smiles wide and wipes her hands on her towel. The clink clank of the unlocked chain is as sweet a sound as bells from a campus square.
"On the ball are ya this year hon," she says with a great Irish accent.
"Hey Julie!" I exclaim, looking past her to 'our' seats.
"You're all set," she continues as she walks around the 40 foot bar,"You need a Tums?"
"Nah," I reply, "Didn't get too bad last night."
And so it goes.
All of these places are as much different as they are the same. They smell of mop water and despair at first; and slowly they fill up with smells of pizza, beer and wings. The bartenders and patrons are friendlier than at most other social scenes. There are no lounges or VIP sections or dress codes or ropes. It is where captains of industry sit next to...well...me.
I drape my coat on one seat and place a water in front of another.
Julie grins and and says, "When are they comin'?"
"Probably right before," I say.
After 15 minutes and half of a Bloody Mary, I get my first text. 'On my way'.
A couple of other guys are in the bar now with the same territorial waters and coats.
I get another text. 'B thr n 5'.
The place is starting to fill up. People are looking at the two empty chairs flanking me. They have the same respect for me that I had for that guy at the party other night who spontaneously started playing the piano. Sure, I was jealous of the attention he was getting from the girls, but that by no means meant I wanted to be him.
My boys show up, filling the empty chairs flanking me on both sides.
"How's work?"
"Good. You?"
"Same shit."
"What's up with that girl?"
"Eh."
That will be about the extent we will talk about real life for the rest for the afternoon.
After looking around, I notice there are a couple of the same folks from last year. There is the guy with the jersey tucked into his jeans who walks up and dowen the lenght of the bar all afternoon.
"Hey, douche is back," my buddy tells me after I'd already seen him.
"Yeah, looks like we are wearing an away jersey this year."
I see that the other crew is here. They are the most like us. I still feel a general respect, but we could take them down if need be.
There are some guys in dress shoes. Whoa. And they brought a girl. Looks like we are up in females this year, from 2 and 1/2 to 3.
The loners are back. I think to myself how I love these guys. They sit alone, they watch and that's it. I worry they are somehow better than us. They don't have any social reason to be here. It is just their team.
Kickoff.
Another football season begins.
We are alive.
The games go on. Our game isn't close. We are winning big. The discussion turns to the season outlook. What are the problems? Who looked good? We try and say things the experts will say later on TV.
And so it goes.
The weeks and months pass and I exchange shirtsleeves for a heavy coat and the ball cap for one of wool. The bartender won't look at me through the window anymore and the gray skies weigh on me heavily. I am tired of the mop water and the beer. I am tired of saving seats. I am tired of the people here. I am tired of that guy with the away jersey tucked into his jeans.
But the games remain. The team will make the playoffs. But we with saved seats know they will lose. The end of this journey will be a sad one. But it will end here, at this perfect place, far enough from the seats obsturcted by taps but centered enough that we don't have to crane our necks to see. It will end in front of our TV. At least for now. At least until I am back in shirtsleeves.
The Bar
With the TV still on from the night before, I stumble and regret my way to the bathroom some ten feet away. As the dark yellowness of a dehydrated man falls to its death, I look through the crack in the fogged window, down to the street two stories below.
What are the people wearing today?
From the looks of their sleeves, it seems to be about 65 maybe even 70 degrees. Lovely. No, more than lovely. It's perfect. I really don't say lovely anyway. Lovely is for the Brits. And they only use it to sound British in front of Americans.
70 degrees is enough to shake my hangover. 90 degree shower water is the next step.
I lather and I rinse and all of the other shit. I don't waste time. I am not one to stand and contemplate the day. I get bored.
I can't help but appreciate the smells though. I have watermelon shampoo and apricot soap and glacier snow deodorant. We are more educated about these things now, aren't we? We know it needs to be natural. That doesn't mean I read the ingredients. If it says 'All Natural' below the picture of the pear tree, well, then I am just fine.
Out of the shower I am quickly into a bright yellow shirt (although today it is gold) and black baseball cap.
I look like a bumble bee with two chins and I smell like a bowl of fruit salad.
It's time to go to the bar.
I stand in my shirt sleeves and look through the neon beer sign at the bartender. The doors are chained still, so it is awkward that I am here. But there are territories to be established. The early bird gets the worm.
She giggles a bit. I am way too early. I won't always be this early, but today I am. Walking towards the gate, she smiles wide and wipes her hands on her towel. The clink clank of the unlocked chain is as sweet a sound as bells from a campus square.
"On the ball are ya this year hon," she says with a great Irish accent.
"Hey Julie!" I exclaim, looking past her to 'our' seats.
"You're all set," she continues as she walks around the 40 foot bar,"You need a Tums?"
"Nah," I reply, "Didn't get too bad last night."
And so it goes.
All of these places are as much different as they are the same. They smell of mop water and despair at first; and slowly they fill up with smells of pizza, beer and wings. The bartenders and patrons are friendlier than at most other social scenes. There are no lounges or VIP sections or dress codes or ropes. It is where captains of industry sit next to...well...me.
I drape my coat on one seat and place a water in front of another.
Julie grins and and says, "When are they comin'?"
"Probably right before," I say.
After 15 minutes and half of a Bloody Mary, I get my first text. 'On my way'.
A couple of other guys are in the bar now with the same territorial waters and coats.
I get another text. 'B thr n 5'.
The place is starting to fill up. People are looking at the two empty chairs flanking me. They have the same respect for me that I had for that guy at the party other night who spontaneously started playing the piano. Sure, I was jealous of the attention he was getting from the girls, but that by no means meant I wanted to be him.
My boys show up, filling the empty chairs flanking me on both sides.
"How's work?"
"Good. You?"
"Same shit."
"What's up with that girl?"
"Eh."
That will be about the extent we will talk about real life for the rest for the afternoon.
After looking around, I notice there are a couple of the same folks from last year. There is the guy with the jersey tucked into his jeans who walks up and dowen the lenght of the bar all afternoon.
"Hey, douche is back," my buddy tells me after I'd already seen him.
"Yeah, looks like we are wearing an away jersey this year."
I see that the other crew is here. They are the most like us. I still feel a general respect, but we could take them down if need be.
There are some guys in dress shoes. Whoa. And they brought a girl. Looks like we are up in females this year, from 2 and 1/2 to 3.
The loners are back. I think to myself how I love these guys. They sit alone, they watch and that's it. I worry they are somehow better than us. They don't have any social reason to be here. It is just their team.
Kickoff.
Another football season begins.
We are alive.
The games go on. Our game isn't close. We are winning big. The discussion turns to the season outlook. What are the problems? Who looked good? We try and say things the experts will say later on TV.
And so it goes.
The weeks and months pass and I exchange shirtsleeves for a heavy coat and the ball cap for one of wool. The bartender won't look at me through the window anymore and the gray skies weigh on me heavily. I am tired of the mop water and the beer. I am tired of saving seats. I am tired of the people here. I am tired of that guy with the away jersey tucked into his jeans.
But the games remain. The team will make the playoffs. But we with saved seats know they will lose. The end of this journey will be a sad one. But it will end here, at this perfect place, far enough from the seats obsturcted by taps but centered enough that we don't have to crane our necks to see. It will end in front of our TV. At least for now. At least until I am back in shirtsleeves.
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