Playboy Party Pooper

As I prepared to celebrate my 29th birthday this past week, I got to thinking about birthday’s past. It occurred to me that I set too high of a bar when I first entered this decade of my life and that no birthday has been able to exceed my 20th. The day of my 20th birthday I witnessed Fordham beat St. John’s at the buzzer in the Garden (and that was back when St. John’s basketball had a pulse. They won the Big East tourney that year and advanced to the Elite Eight the year before). While MSG security denied our effort to storm the court, no one could prevent us from engaging in the epic bout of drinking that we had planned for later that day at McSorleys. Even the cantankerous octogenarian waiter couldn’t temper my spirits when asking me, “How the hell do you expect me to live off of a two dollar tip in the 21st century?” The last thing I remember from that day is riding the subway back to the Bronx with my friend Eddie. Still drunk on victory and McSorley’s Dark, we serenaded the entire subway car with a rousing rendition of Fordham’s fight song. When the rest of the car refused to join in, we accused them all of being pathetic and resentful Johnnie’s fans. However, seeing as how it was still only 6 o’clock in the evening it seems more likely that they were just too tired from work to join our chorus.

While I reminisced about that birthday, I became determined to finally top it as I entered the last year of my 20s. With a diverse and fun-filled itinerary planned, I knew that this particular birthday had great potential.

Despite my best laid plans, the day got off to an inauspicious start. I somehow got it into my head that Lori had secretly flown in all my friends and family and that they’d be waiting to surprise me when we arrived at our favorite breakfast spot. You can imagine my disappointment when we arrived at the restaurant and the only group there to greet us was a threesome of cops refusing a refill of coffee because “you can’t be jittery when you got your piece drawn on a perp.” So with only Lori to keep me company, I sadly ate my Dutch pancake in silence.

While breakfast was a mild success (the disappointment over the lack of a surprise party was somewhat offset by the deliciousness of my pannekoeken), the day quickly took a turn for the better. Because Lori’s store was open late to accommodate the influx of Christmas shoppers, I was free to accept a last minute invitation to a Playboy holiday party. Our mutual friend, Kate, who works for Playboy’s website, was in need of a date, and I was happy to oblige. We both went to the party with modest goals. Kate wanted to see any model that she had personally “touched up,” so she could smugly tell me about that girl’s figurative and metaphoric warts. As for me, I was just hoping to have a simple conversation with a model which I could then outrageously embellish for the purposes of this blog. Unfortunately we would both come away disappointed. Kate never saw any such model, and when I got a chance to talk to one I didn’t even get the bat off of my shoulder.

Despite the fact that I had a few amusing anecdotes prepared for a possible convo with a Playboy Bunny (including one where I witnessed my friend get accused of being racist for ordering a white slice at a pizzeria. This episode ended with a girl chasing her friend down the street yelling “Come back Sharonda! It just means the pizza ain’t got no red sauce!”) there were several factors contributing to my inability to converse that I had failed to account for. To begin with, I like to think of myself as a seasoned veteran of the partying circuit. However, I made a rookie mistake and showed an amazing lack of foresight in my pre-party dinner decision. Armed with the knowledge that I would soon be in the presence of scores of scantily clad Bunnies, I went ahead and sagaciously decided to take Buffalo Wild Wings up on their offer of 50 cent boneless wings. Now my sister has informed me that no one wants to read about my gastrointestinal issues, but for the purposes of this story the havoc that the boneless wings wreaked on my stomach is absolutely essential and cannot be avoided. Heeding my sister’s advice, I’ll spare you the details. But I will say that it’s difficult to be charming and make good impressions when you’ve got beads of sweat forming on your forehead due to the Asian Zing, Jamaican Jerk and Garlic Parmesan sauces angrily mixing it up in your bowels.

Along with my dinner decision, Hef’s choice for the Christmas issue cover conspired to foil my conversation capabilities. This month’s issue features Dancing With the Star’s Joanna Krupa on the cover. Unfortunately for me, this is apparently the one reality show that I don’t watch, and as such, I was not equipped with a bevy of penetrating insights concerning this reality celebrity. So when a model that had been standing next to me talking to a photographer pointed to a copy of the magazine on the table in front of us and commented to Kate and me that Krupa was in hot water in her native Poland for wearing a crucifix in her pictures, I was at a loss for a response. I’m Catholic and my girlfriend is a Chicago Pollock, giving me ample room to run with her comments, yet I was too busy wracking my brain trying to figure out who the girl on the cover was. If only Hef had gone with Padma or Snookie for the Christmas cover, I would have found myself in a conversational comfort zone. I could have talked to this model for hours about deconstructed ceviche or where to get the best "sangwiches and chesseballs" in Seaside.

So with my distracting stomach and complete lack of knowledge of controversial Polish primetime dancers, I completely froze. After conversing with Kate for a few minutes, the girl turned back to her conversation with the photographer. However, there wasn’t time to worry about it, for we were off to the next phase of my birthday celebration. By this time Lori and our friends were waiting for us at a music venue in our neighborhood, and the remainder of the night is what really put this birthday on par with my 20th. We got to listen to some truly awe-inspiring funk from New Orleans, ate copious amounts of brownies, and got a chance to make our own music at a late night Karaoke bar. As usual, my memory gets a little hazy from there although I distinctly remember freezing up when it came my turn to sing “You’re the One that I Want.” It seems that coming up small in the clutch was a theme for this particular birthday. I was forced to stumble through the song from memory because my eyes were at half-mast at that point I was incapable of reading the lyrics on the little screen.

This abysmal performance aside, it was a great birthday. It’ll certainly be hard to top next year, but I think if Lori gets started now on my surprise party filled with visiting New Yorkers, then she might be able to pull it off. So be on the lookout for that invitation!

Anyway, in other news, I’ll be in New York from the 24th to the 30th, so get in touch! Also, word out of Belmont is that an event dear to my heart may be cancelled due to lack of funds. So I encourage all of you to do your part and head out to Belmont and drop some money on the ponies so they don’t have to cancel the third leg of the Triple Crown. I will do my part by not gambling at the track because all I do is take money off the good people at Belmont!