A Blaze of Glory

I suppose I don’t really need an introduction. Anyone rockin’ to the beats on 1 Tuff already knows about me and my miserable existence. If anyone cares enough after reading this to delve into my wounded psyche, send an email to tombyron@ladykillers.com, and I’ll give you a brief synopsis of the cinematic, if not sheisty life that is…Isserlis.

In the meantime, let’s get the ball rolling. I’ve sat in front of my home computer for hours after long days of sitting in front of my computer at work, expounding on what kind of proverbial “flava” I could add to the cause. “This needs to be big,” I told myself. “I need to envision, to create; maybe some character outlines, plot development, some kind of fictional tale encompassing a cross-country trip gone awry, a coming of age romance involving a strapping lad and a girl-next-door type with a sick set of tits, or maybe even some kind of psycho-analytical thriller where nothing is chronological and people walk away from the book, or film, or whatever, thinking, ‘wow, he really understands human nature. He should definitely win several prestigious awards, make a lot of money, and sleep with several women for his efforts.’”

I sat and wracked my brain. I watched a lot of television and thought. I freebased copious amounts of hard, hard drugs. I masturbated furiously. Nothing worked. As much as I put my mind (and my callused left hand) to work, the creative juices did would not flow (other than the already stated creative juices [p.s. from now on, anytime you see parentheses sprout up, you can be damn sure I’m going to be talking about jerking off, and giggling like a school girl each time I write it.])

I was forced to face the hard facts: I have no imagination. Seriously…none. This is probably a bad thing. I like to think I’m a creative person, I enjoy the arts and such; literature, cinema, art, anything else considered free and fancy – but that’s where it ends. My mind is a desolate wasteland: Tuesdays and tumbleweeds. I can’t imagine the girl of my dreams, I don’t dream about where I’ll be in five years. Shit, when said masturbation takes place, I don’t even fantasize scenarios. I need something tangible to look at because my mind (and hard-on) would be lost without actually seeing a naked woman on a screen in front of me. In those rare instances when porn is not on hand – the only thing I can resort to is thinking about past sexual experiences I’ve had, picturing some of the stuff I kept the lights on for back in the day, which may explain why I’m so damn hung up on every girl I’ve dated – they’re the only girls I can get off to. A vicious cycle!

Yet I digress, which you’ll see I do often. I blame society and college “extra-curriculars” for this lack of an attention span, but what can you do. My point is that if you ever find yourself reading anything written by me, you can be sure it’s autobiographical (and, you can be sure you’re wasting your time). So, to get the ball rolling, I might as well relay the events of last weekend.

It was your typical Saturday evening. I was sitting in my apartment, drinking some red wine and waiting to see what was going on (what a fairy you’re thinking, but allow me to explain. I’ve been trying to follow the South Beach diet this week, you know cut down on carbs for the upcoming swimsuit season, and the book tells you the best alcohol to drink is red wine. Uh, wait, disregard all that, I was kidding, haha). I spoke to my buddy Dave and he told me that a lot of kids were going to a club called 9 ½. I’m not a big fan of the club scene, especially the ones too cool for actual names, but I thought, “Hey, why not? If the club is anything like the movie, I should be in good shape. I hope a girl resembling Basinger is there.” I finished up my wine, ingested a night’s worth of mescaline, and started the trek to the city.

I headed up to Mark and Dan’s shoe-box apartment to hang out with them first. It was Mark’s birthday on Wednesday, so this would be his official “night out”. Mark needs a small introduction for he is rather diminutive. He was one of my best friends in college, great kid, but he’s not the partying type. He’s a 5’5 Jew, has a negative amount of self-esteem, and suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome. When I got to his house I opened a beer (sorry South Beach), and he poured himself a nice, tall glass of water.

Me: Dude, what are you doing, it’s your birthday?

Mark: Yeah, I figure I’m gonna be drinking a lot at the bar, I don’t really wanna start now.

I proceeded to punch him in the crotch. Dan got back from studying at the law school library (if you know Dan, the shear mass of knowledge he has accrued from the first year of law school has made his head even larger, and if you don’t know Dan, he had a ridiculously large skull to begin with. It’s like a tick that’s engorged with blood after latching onto some poor innocent animal), we had a few more beers, and hit the road.

We exited the cab in front of 9 ½ and walked right by it the first time without going in. Was this it? On the middle of an otherwise non-descript block, there it was, with all white doors, velvet ropes, and huge black guys out front wearing even more black. I could barely see them. We knew right away, this wasn’t our type of place; large men, lines to get in…cover charges. We stood outside for a second, looking at each other quizzically while a house of a man in the back chided us, “You know this is the place fool, go on in, the line’s on the other side.” Well, we were meeting our friends, and who am I to disregard a guy who probably has a record. We walked inside.

We enter the club, and immediately my mood dampens. These are the types of places I hate. Neon lights, white dance floor in the middle. Tables along the sides with little placards on them that read “reserved.” The three of us are in a terrible mood, and in cases such as these I only see a few options. Dan wants to leave, that’s option #1. Option #2 is spending a hell of a lot of money, and getting shit-faced. I walked up to the bar and ordered my $7 bud light. Dave and Adam arrive a short time later, and Adam orders a round of shots for Mark’s birthday. Adam is the annoying friend that everyone has. You know him, he makes obnoxious comments to the girl you’re talking to, always…but you keep him around because he never hesitates to spend his father’s money, especially when trying to impress the ladies after putting his foot in his mouth.

I felt a little better after the shot, and decided to keep it going. Ahh, sweet, sweet booze. I am what some people would like to call a lightweight, a cheap date, a four-beer queer, a cornucopia of drunken stupidity if you will. You give me a couple drinks and I could make myself comfortable in a shower scene on the set of Oz.

So I stood there and stared at girls, then stared a bit more. I found myself making eyes with a cute little number, trying to figure out a way to approach her. I always tell myself, and anyone else who will listen, that I’m great at talking to girls; it’s just that first line I have trouble with. How do you approach a girl at a bar and not look like an ass? The consensus answer I get from most people is that you don’t, you always look like an ass, you just gotta keep trying. Now, if I’m making an ass out of myself, I want it to be blaze-of-glory/partial-nudity/thrown-out-of-bar/knocking-down-mailboxes ass, not shot-down-by-an-ugly-girl ass, so I usually refrain from conversations with the ladies.

Next thing I knew though, fate helped me out and the girl I was staring at and her friend were approached by some weird photographer taking pictures for some “hot girls in a club” website that lonely, old men (or myself) frequent. Like Maverick after Goose’s untimely demise, I sauntered over to the two ladies sans wingman and struck up the conversation. The beginning part was easy. I asked about the creepy photographer and “what was that all about?” I made jokes about it being a bad idea to let people take pictures of you at clubs, related a few anecdotes, and then, as the uncomfortable silence began to set in after the initial intro, I realized something: I was very, very wrong. It’s not just the first line I have trouble with. I am a terrible conversationalist.

I think I should blame this on my strategy. As I said, I went in there alone and had no one to lean on, while the two of them had each other for help. The conversation went nowhere quick.

Me: So, uh, where are you from.

Boobs: Rockville Center (my mind is racing… Rockville Center, Rockville Center…nothing)

Me: Oh, Ok. I’m from Long Island too. Do you go to school?

Boobs: Yeah, I go to Rhode Island (lightbulb!)

Me: Do you know Steve Shatz (Bad idea, if you know Steve Shatz, you don’t bring up Steve Shatz. You leave Steve Shatz alone. One day being “Shatzed” will sit next to “Munsoned” in the lexicon of shame. Let’s just say it one more time…Shatz)

Boobs: Yeah (Her eyes roll. This is where it gets bad)

Me: Well, I went to GW. I guess we both went to schools that were in the A10.

Boobs: Haha, yeah, I guess.

Boob’s Friend: Hey, do you know its daylight savings time tonight?

Me: Wow, I didn’t know that, that’s crazy.

A minute and a half goes by. Literally.

Boobs: Well, we’re gonna go to the bar.

Me: Alright, sounds good, (and I actually said this) I’ll see you later, we can talk more about daylight savings time.

I am a sorry, sorry kid. So I drank more, and set out on my own to find some more girls to shoot me down. A little while later, I came across a petite little blonde who somehow had a connection with Adam. Now, as I can only remember the embarrassing things I say, I don’t recall how we got that conversation going, but somehow it went well. Adam told me that she smoked pot and if I brought it up, I’d be golden. I mentioned I would love to leave the place and get stoned and she said that was a great idea. Of course, I didn’t have any weed on me, so I was hoping she did, and I brought Dave with me since she had a hot friend with her. This seemed like it would work out well. Here’s a very small, cute blonde girl who smokes a lot. From other girls I know that fit that description, I was figuring she’d put out.

So the four of us head out the door and I think it’s all good, except that Adam and “the worst girl I have ever met” followed us outside. Everyone has met a girl like this. Adam met her online, and apparently she’s acquaintances with the two girls Dave and I were with. This girl is a chubby, red-headed Jew. Not a self-hating Jew like me, mind you, but a nasty, loud, obnoxious kind who tells everyone how much she loves to party, and gives a lot of head because she knows that’s the only way guys will talk to her (which might be her only redeeming quality). Apparently at birth, her parents were confused as to her sex and named her Corey. This, in a dumpy bat-mitzvahed nutshell, describes the worst girl in the world.

There were six of us and two cabs, so I ended up with the blonde girl, named Erin, and the four of them took the other cab. I really wanted to put the moves on in the cab, but the overpowering stench of Muhammed our driver and the straight scotch kept my head towards the window. We got out of the cab before the others arrived and I decide it’s time to get awkward. Now, Chris Rock was right; if you’re want something done, you have to be forceful about it, you have to assert yourself, otherwise, you’re not getting your balls licked, and you’re sleeping on the couch. An addendum to that rule: If you have to ask for a kiss, you’re not getting one.

Me: Hey, before we go inside, I mean, I don’t know, I wanted to stop before we go in. Could we just take a second…

Followed by more incoherent rambling, and finally…

Me: Can I kiss you?

Her: Later.

Later? Well, it wasn’t a no. I was wounded though, losing blood. Even in my stupor, my ego was hurt. I found myself muttering how stupid I was for the next 15 minutes.

We get inside, check out the little apartment she shares with her dog, and Erin starts to roll a joint. All the while, the gamekiller couple - Corey and Adam - are ruining everyone’s chances. Corey is talking constantly about smoking weed. You know these people. The people who bring up terms and processes to make themselves look like little pot pros. “Ooohh, I like those kinds of papers. We should have gotten a blunt. Do you guys know how to shotgun? Sometimes I just like to take one to the head. I spoke to my dealer today, he calls me sometimes, blah, blah, blah….”

Adam, who is notorious in his own right for screwing up his friend’s chances, was so upset by Corey that he actually got up and left. Not before he made a point of asking me seven times in front of the girls how many women I’ve slept with. Smooth, Adam. Smooth.

So Adam leaves and now there are five. Dave and I get the idea that if we can get the redheaded-slut to leave, the action with the ladies can commence. We go into the hallway to discuss this, then come to the door and tell Corey that Adam is waiting downstairs. She is not moving. Apparently, other guys have tried this move on her in the past. Dave and I are befuddled. The other girls apparently were too. They all decided to leave, even Erin who lived in the apartment.

We went outside, put Corey in a cab and then shared another cab uptown. By this time it was too late though, the mood was over and my chances of getting ass burned out in much the same way this story has. I got Erin’s number, which I’m sure I’ll never call, and headed back to Dave’s apartment where I would relegate myself to sleeping on his nasty ass futon. “Well,” I thought. “At least Ray’s Pizza is open.”

To email the man known simply as Isserlis click here or respond to his crimefighting tendencies at the 1 Tuff Message Board.