Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Shhh. Someone's at the door.


(So in my last installment, I talked about spitting in the eye of popular convention and what society and precedent tell us to do.

Of course, this is centered around my age and how I need to comport myself. I’m not referring to crazy things like walking down the street and poking people in the eye with your thumb or asking women if they are pregnant or just really fat. Please, continue to abide by popular convention and what society tells us to do when it comes to those items. You’ll save yourself an ass kicking – and I’m not just talking about the poking people in the eye with your thumb example, either.)

Ok, off we go...

Knock Knock.

(Inquisitive) Who’s There?

(Excited) 32!

(Shock and horror) "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't come to the door right now. I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill down the stairs and subject myself to further school absences. You can reach my parents at their places of business. Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. Have a nice day!"

(Silence)… 1 Mississippi… 2 Mississippi… 3 Mississippi…


Shhh. Can’t make a single noise - I’m hiding. You know, I’m doing that thing we do on Sunday mornings when the Jehovah witnesses come to the door. Some lower the volume on their computers so that the moaning from Youporn won’t give you away; some put their cell phones on silent (or their beepers on vibrate if they live in 1994); or some tell that random cougar they picked up last night to shut the fuck up or you will hurt her in ways found only in the backroom of Satriali’s Pork Store; and we hold our breath.

What? I’m speaking hypothetically here. I’m just sayin’…

OK. I’m looking out the peephole and I see 32 standing there with its bags. Ready to move in on my shit. From what I can tell, here's what I see:

There’s a black president who wants us to paint our roofs white to conserve energy… the Dolphins’ 2nd-round draft pick - a black quarterback, who’s last name is White… I see that the richest country on the planet is broke and so are the people that hold our money… and I see that my mother finally flew on a plane for the first time in well over 30 years and she got the flu (I swear, I’m not making this shit up)…

Let’s see, what else? Oh, there are some things I recognize: Rain on Memorial Day… America blowing it on American Idol… Lost is as confusing as ever… I’m still poor…

Yeah, I’m fucked.

I don’t want 32 anywhere near me. I’m not feelin’ 32. It’s not welcome. In fact, it’s the guest that stays for an entire year. And I was just getting used to 31.

See, 31 isn’t really that bad and it’s so close to 30. And as we all know, 30 is so f-ing cool. It’s like, 30 and 31 are boys. They hang out in bars in the city. They play pick up basketball and hook up with college girls. They can do all the bombs: Jaegger, Saki, Irish Car.

But, 32 – what a square. It’s grey hair scattered about. It’s limping for no apparent reason other than you exist. It’s thinking today’s music is too loud and what people call hip-hop now-a-days needs a new name because it has no flavor and no soul. It’s a far cry from De La Soul, Tribe and the entire Def Jam crew. It’s listening to Delilah and thinking she has all the answers. Damn you, 32. You sound like you suck.

Currently, I am a 31-year-old manboy. It’s great and has an ever better ring to it. It’s quirky and endearing.

But 32-year-old man boy? That sounds like crap. It sounds like a dude that wears those horrible Ed Hardy shirts one size too small when he goes out because he thinks it’s “fitted.” He wears his favorite team’s jersey with HIS last name on the back. He hangs out with guys who call each other variations of the word “Bro,” like “bro-ham” or “bro-hemian” and some other dude that everyone calls T-Bag for that random time he got T-bagged in college after falling asleep on the couch with his mouth open while watching Ally McBeal.

Ugh, 32 sounds horrible. Plus, 32 is when people go around and start lying about their age, isn’t it?

F-it. Maybe 32 will have something else in that bag. Maybe some winning lottery numbers or another Yankees World Series title. Maybe it’s got a new car or some new gardening techniques to fix up the backyard. Maybe it’s got that trip to Europe or a funny season of SNL. You know, it would kick ass if it had a Kanye West album that doesn’t suck or perhaps a little patience.

Come on 32 – I need you to step up big.

4 comments:

Tere said...

I say you stick with Delilah - she DOES have all the answers.

moni said...

You are so right about the Ed Hardy shirts, they are horrendus, please don't ever do that...fitted hahahah

And about spitting in the eye of popular convention- dude you have a normal job, normal girlfriend, normal car....ure normal - unlike some of us that REALLY aren't. ...thanks for making me laugh out loud!

Diana said...

Men never mature, so stop worrying! Get married and have kids and you will have answers to all those questions! Not until you have a kid of your own will you understand life and its meaning and the road ahead. Don't be afraid, it's a normal process and you will be enriched by it.
Good luck

ERodriguez173 said...

Holy shit! You know T-bag? Yeah, we all do. You're absolutely right. The poor bufoon who gets scorned in college for one bad night of mistakes. Oh well.

Enjoy 32 when it gets here. Now may be a good time to have "that talk" with 31 and tell it what a wonderful time you've spent together but you're moving on.