About Not Getting The Girl
March 17, 2009, 4:46 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

(Trumpets blare)

(Huge oak doors swing open, onlookers gathered gasp as a daylight drenches the room)

(Trumpets blare again)

(Smugly, Zach walks past the crowd through the royal cathedral room, refusing to make eye contact with the plebes furiously genuflecting)

Hey, what’s up? It’s Zach, and I have two jobs and I want to talk again.

What? I abandoned you, forcing you to go to other, less good blogs of other, less good Northeastern Journalism School graduates? You’re mad about that? Whatevs. I was, you know, not doing much. Staying with mom. Being bad depressed (think Morrissey), not cute depressed (think Joaquin Phoenix).  But here I am, back with yet another new life and a finite attention span for you and this blog. You’re sold? Sweet.


Right, so let’s get the formalities out of the way. One, for those of you who don’t know, I live in New York City. Technically, I live in Hoboken, NJ, which is closer to Manhattan than most of the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. Hoboken is where upperclass white people in high finance moved to in the 1990’s when they were priced out of Manhattan and had a longing to live their college days over again. (i.e., there’s a lot of gyms, a lot of high rise condos and bars with Irish names, including Douchebag O’Houlihans and Patty McConformists Pub and Boring Girl Zoo). These are the people mostly responsible for the financial apocalypse that’s keeping you from ordering dessert at your favorite restaurant. Yep, these are my neighbors.

And, oh yes, the jobs. I’m not going to say exactly what I’m doing, only that I got a day job that pays well (as in more than I’ve ever made before, as in, more than $4.65 an hour plus dour editor put-downs) and another job at night that could be considered a dream job if not for the fact it pays me $4.65 an hour plus dour editor put-downs.

With money and employment no longer viable reasons for suicide, I now have the time to dedicate to this blog to focus on my real suicide inducing passions: girls and reliving the past.

But before we get on to my woe, let me also deal with one more order of business. I’m also writing because, here among 50-hour work weeks (eek!), slate-gray Ipod centric commutes (puke!) and the urban jungle concrete coffin of New York (um, Bjork?), I’ve settled on the fact that I need to be creative as I canoe slowly with the other lemmings toward a numbing life in the lower-upper middle class. In addition to that sunshine, I’ve also figured out that I do a few things well: 1. Shoot a 17-foot jump shot, 2. Possess above-average comedic timing, 3. Hug good, 4. Write a bit better than some.  When I’m not doing any of those things, I feel incomplete, like I’m wasting myself. I haven’t always been sold on that last one, but I have a few good friends who support me and insist that I can, and should write. So to you few, who have encouraged me, I truly appreciate it, even though I might sometimes express my appreciation in the form of a dismissive castigation.

About Not Getting The Girl.

1. My Saturday night in New York, my cousin and his wife invited me out to a house-warming party in Brooklyn. It was a lawyer party (not in that you had to dress up like lawyers from John Grisham novels, but that it was attended by lawyers who work with my cousin’s wife, Liz). It was a surprisingly raucous affair for a group possessing Juris Doctorates from schools with terrible sports (Harvard, Yale, George Washington) and bank accounts that would make Hurley from Lost blush. So, good old Zach does what good old Zach does, he hides in the corner, talks to the only familiar person he knows (Cousin Ryan) and lets the Bud Light take him where it desires. After an alarming drinking tour de force called a “Power Hour”, essentially just an hour of power, Zach was buzzed and pleased to be out of his mom’s basement and finally co-mingling with people not aged 50 or 14. He was chatty, and by the end of the night, was perched by the the booze, scoping out the room for women who could reject him. Well, what should fate bring him, but a pretty girl, stylishly dressed and get this, she walked over to Zach. (The fact that he was leaning against the booze counter was merely coincidental. She wanted his shit.)

“Um, can I have a drink?” the girl asked.

“You want my shit, do you, you nasty-freak-of-a-soulmate?” Zach said to himself quietly.

“A drink?” she asked again.

“Sure. What do you want?” Zach asked. “I don’t know how to make that many drinks, just a Bad In Bed, Shockingly Hairy, a Self-Righteous Self-Obsessed. Perhaps I could interest you in an Anxiety-Ridden Self-Loather, that’s my specialty.”

“I’ll have a Bud Light, please.”

You’d think that this would be the moment where our hero would lose the girl. No, this is too easy.

In fact, he did start speaking to the girl. She had a great name, a name from an ubiquitous* 1980’s song. Zach proceeded to repeat the chorus of that song over and over again until the girl smiled awkwardly at first, and then really awkwardly later. Finally, on song-reference 37, Zach broke through, and they talked about nice things other than the fact that her first name was from a song that was really popular in the 1980’s.


But the party was wrapping up soon. Cousin and Cousin’s wife said it was time to go, and like a 5-year-old/eunuch/goddamn pussy, Zach put his jacket on, said his goodbyes and left with Ryan and Liz.

(Switching uncomfortably from third person to first person . . . —-slow motion noises—. . . 3 . . . 2 . . .1.)

So there  I was, definitely drunk, but also a bit giddy that I had a nice party chat with a cute girl. As we’re entering the subway station, my cousin informs me that 1980s-Song-Girl, apparently a friend of Ryan and Liz, wanted to meet up with us at a bar. Now, you know what I’m thinking.

According to scripture: Book of R. Kelly, Ignition (Remix)

“After the show, it’s the after party.  And after the party, the hotel lobby.”


So there, I was at least on my way to some form of lobby, if not her vestibule.

But on the train, the powers that be decide that it’s late, and that they do not, in fact, want to meet up for post-party drinks. Faced with the dilemma of either going home to sleep alone and waking up the next morning to a cup of watered-down coffee and my right hand OR having a potentially late night with a girl with a vestibule, I chose Chock Full O’Nuts and Righty.

So, poor old 1980sGirl was stood up. We couldn’t find her number in any phone. Too bad.

But wait (1159 words!).

It gets better.

A few weeks go by and I’m informed that 1980sGirl will be at bar for a big soccer game that’s going to be on TV there. Of course, I make myself up nice (pluck nose hair, put on deodorant) and meet up with Liz and Ryan at the pub. I spot 1980sGirl at the other end of the bar. I know I have a second chance. So, I come up with a brilliant  game plan. First, I’ll stay way on the other side of the bar and watch the game, careful  not to acknowledge her presence because girls like to be ignored and stuff (That’s what the Pickup Artist says, anyway). That kills two birds. Game + Girl Ignore = Awesome.


So the first half goes by. By now, my cousin is furious that I refuse to deviate from my game plan, so he walks us over to where 1980sGirl has been holed up. I step towards her, trying to make eye contact so I can come in with something sexy-fied like “Hey” and add an awkward, circular hand wave. But I peel off, realizing that she is getting her coat on and leaving. She never saw me.  Final score: Future Shrink’s Billing Office 2, Zach 0.

But wait (1365 words!), there’s more.

Another three weeks go by, and one night, Zach is at da’ club, illin’, and checking out potential girls with serious daddy issues and vestibules, only to see that 1980sGirl is there. This time, drunk on job interviews and the new season of Lost, I make my move, sans-dorky hand hello. I’m back in the mix, mentioning that her name is from a 1980’s song and that she is from one of my favorite places on Earth. I apologize for standing her up. She’s learned to laugh when I finish a sentence, what more could go right?

Well, then it came for her and her friend to leave. There’s an pregnant pause. She reaches into her pocketbook and takes out an Iphone and looks at it, then looks at me. It’s here where I should know that she’s telling me to get her number. But it’s here that I realize that last week, my phone went through the laundry so I had to borrow my grandfather’s back-up cell phone which he borrowed from Zak Morris in 1987.


She has Iphone. I have Satellite Phone from movie Predator. Fuck, no number is gotten. I’m way too embarrassed. (Final score: Zach’s Future Wife’s Future Shrink’s Billing Office 3, Zach 0).

She hugs me and says, “Well, I guess I have to go. . . I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

“I hope so,” I say, redeeming myself just a bit.

Then out the door she went, into the New York night and surely into some other guy’s vestibule.