A Bachelor's Weekend
I've got this idea in my head of the archetypal "Swingin' Bachelor." He's a guy who's always in a sharp suit, who drinks martinis drier than Vegas concrete, who wears a snap-brim fedora and knows which nightclubs are the best for talking to dames with great gams who all speak a mile a minute like the Gilmore girls. He works in some sort of nebulous advertising job that never seems to require his presence, he drives a car that hasn't even been invented yet and he probably knows how to get a robot maid if he really wanted one, which he doesn't, because robots are square, man. Now, I'll admit, this idea of mine is based entirely on movies that I've seen; Rock Hudson/Cary Grant-era films that make bachelorhood seem like a never ending recess where New York city is your sandbox. Where the bars at night are big and bright, not too deep and pretty heartless, all things considered, but everyone knows the score and thinks it's awesome anyway.
I know that this idea is all a lie. At least it is nowadays.
Today, bachelorhood is quite the other thing. Sure, there are the American Psychos of the world that live the post-Millennial version of the above lifestyle, but everyone hates those guys. They're slimy and they all smoke cigars (gross!) and they talk loud about the "deals" they've pulled off at work as a way to distract people from their crippling lack of personality. Their days are filled with skin cream and lunch meetings and their nights are filled with the worry that they'll have another genital herpes outbreak before the business trip to Amsterdam. It's a caustic, cold life and no amount of limo rides or caviar eaten off the buttocks of a 1000$-a-night whore can change that.
The other version of modern bachelorhood, the real version, can best be summed up in two words: Deadbeat Dad. His life is a shitty job at a hardware store, a bar tab that he can't pay and a drinking problem he can't control. He's got one nice pair of slacks for court dates and he hasn't had sex with a girl who was sober in 10 years. His kids hate him because he's worthless, his family doesn't talk to him because he's mean and his only friend in the world is the drug dealer who lives across the hall, but he's only friends with Deadbeat Dad because he's occasionally good for a lift (when his car is actually running). Dodging the IRS and eating day-old bread; that's a bachelor's life in 2006.
I bring all of this up because, for about 72 hours this weekend, I will be among their ranks. Girlfriend is going to her parents for the weekend, leaving me to my own devices; a frightening prospect for all involved. As much as I bitch and moan about wanting "to do whatever I want, dude," I'm like the bad kid at school who secretly craves structure. I genuinely like having Girlfriend around because she, among other things, gives my days shape; without her they become a formless blob of drunken, couch-dwelling laziness. Which, I'll admit, does have it's charms. But after awhile, when the hangover is standing up and shouting "Hello" and my shirt's so stained with Slim Jim grease that it looks like the Shroud of Turin, I begin to miss that girl of mine.
However, I can't change the inevitable. She's got to go upstate and I've got to deal with being one man against the city. Fortunately, I was smart enough to make some plans in advance to occupy my time. A party in the Bronx (because I need to socialize and also, the Bronx is great exercise, what with the running from gangs of roving thugs and all), drinks with friends, a play to work on, errands to run, etc., etc.
I'll manage. But I won't like it.
I'm sure I'm just being over-dramatic, a fact which I'll blame on my current hangover that's a direct result of the fun Girlfriend and I had last night. Which is probably also a factor in my melancholy mood.
And, if I may contradict myself just a bit, I probably will enjoy having the house to myself for a couple of days. Watching the movies I want to watch, listening to Tom Wait's "Closing Time" album at an unreasonable volume, drinking beer in the shower and so forth. However, it's nice to know that my bachelorhood comes with an expiration date.
It's good that it has to end. Because bachelors are a creepy lot. Which is all I'm trying to say.
I know that this idea is all a lie. At least it is nowadays.
Today, bachelorhood is quite the other thing. Sure, there are the American Psychos of the world that live the post-Millennial version of the above lifestyle, but everyone hates those guys. They're slimy and they all smoke cigars (gross!) and they talk loud about the "deals" they've pulled off at work as a way to distract people from their crippling lack of personality. Their days are filled with skin cream and lunch meetings and their nights are filled with the worry that they'll have another genital herpes outbreak before the business trip to Amsterdam. It's a caustic, cold life and no amount of limo rides or caviar eaten off the buttocks of a 1000$-a-night whore can change that.
The other version of modern bachelorhood, the real version, can best be summed up in two words: Deadbeat Dad. His life is a shitty job at a hardware store, a bar tab that he can't pay and a drinking problem he can't control. He's got one nice pair of slacks for court dates and he hasn't had sex with a girl who was sober in 10 years. His kids hate him because he's worthless, his family doesn't talk to him because he's mean and his only friend in the world is the drug dealer who lives across the hall, but he's only friends with Deadbeat Dad because he's occasionally good for a lift (when his car is actually running). Dodging the IRS and eating day-old bread; that's a bachelor's life in 2006.
I bring all of this up because, for about 72 hours this weekend, I will be among their ranks. Girlfriend is going to her parents for the weekend, leaving me to my own devices; a frightening prospect for all involved. As much as I bitch and moan about wanting "to do whatever I want, dude," I'm like the bad kid at school who secretly craves structure. I genuinely like having Girlfriend around because she, among other things, gives my days shape; without her they become a formless blob of drunken, couch-dwelling laziness. Which, I'll admit, does have it's charms. But after awhile, when the hangover is standing up and shouting "Hello" and my shirt's so stained with Slim Jim grease that it looks like the Shroud of Turin, I begin to miss that girl of mine.
However, I can't change the inevitable. She's got to go upstate and I've got to deal with being one man against the city. Fortunately, I was smart enough to make some plans in advance to occupy my time. A party in the Bronx (because I need to socialize and also, the Bronx is great exercise, what with the running from gangs of roving thugs and all), drinks with friends, a play to work on, errands to run, etc., etc.
I'll manage. But I won't like it.
I'm sure I'm just being over-dramatic, a fact which I'll blame on my current hangover that's a direct result of the fun Girlfriend and I had last night. Which is probably also a factor in my melancholy mood.
And, if I may contradict myself just a bit, I probably will enjoy having the house to myself for a couple of days. Watching the movies I want to watch, listening to Tom Wait's "Closing Time" album at an unreasonable volume, drinking beer in the shower and so forth. However, it's nice to know that my bachelorhood comes with an expiration date.
It's good that it has to end. Because bachelors are a creepy lot. Which is all I'm trying to say.
posted by Clinton at 9:32 AM
10 Comments:
Without my wife, I forget to sleep. No lie. I'll just stay up until I get creepy and stinky and I get sick of writing songs on my Casio keyboard. Or I play video games.
Alright, I was going to let it go...first, all the Broadway stuff, second, blogging about said Broadway soundtrack, and now, over-dramatizing absence of girlfriend for ONE weekend. Clinton, my man, it is time to reclaim your manhood. Stat. Don't let the hangover mess with your mind--you are stronger than it. Yes, bachelors can be creepy, but if you're only single for 72 hours, that's pretty much license to drink way too much, leer at strange women, look at filth on the Internet, eat junk and just generally feel like a worthless human being. Then, in the midst of this abject existence, your lady returns and her shining presence reminds you that she is "the light of your life", blah, blah, blah.
CR III... "to drink way too much, leer at strange women, look at filth on the Internet, eat junk and just generally feel like a worthless human being."
That was pretty much the plan anyway. I have absolutely zero willpower when it comes to resisting the above temptations, so believe me when I say that expressing a desire to change my behavior and ACTUALLY changing my behavior are two very different things. As for the Broadway... well, what can I say? I'm a dude who likes some musical theater.
Good, good, good. That is a SOLID plan, I must say. As you know, actually *changing* one's behavior is overrated. In fact, changes in behavior have been linked to all sorts of bad stuff (psychosis, depression, drunkenness, mania, voting for Nader, etc.) So I say, "Stay the course!"
RE: Broadway. At least you commented on the boobies.
Dude, you drink beer in the shower all the time. Girlfriend doesn't mind, as long as you don't leave the cans in the tub.
You should be drinking too much, leering at strange women, looking at filth on the internet, and eating junk, regardless of whether you are single or not. It's just the way it's supposed to be.
And if Girlfriend wants to join in on the fun, even better ;)
If any mother is reading this, please just skip over my comment to ones below this one. Thanks.
You might want to try the old game of "how many times can I whack off in a day without it hurting?" at least one of these three days.
Who do you think invented that game? (ahem)
how come i've never thought of drinking in the shower?
It's really a magical thing; I recommend canned or bottled beer, though, exclusively. Any kind of mixed drink that involves ice and glassware doesn't work as well.
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