Last summer I wrote a story for Overflow Magazine’s “Sad Stories by Funny People”. It’s a great magazine for, by, and about people who live and work in south Brooklyn. I’ve decided to put a portion of it here on my blog. If you want to read the rest, the link is at the bottom. 

Poppin’ bottles in the ice, like a blizzard

When we drink we do it right g’tting’ slizzard

Sippin’ sizzurp in my ride, like Three 6

Now I m feelin’ so fly like a G6

Like a G6, Like a G6

Now I’m feelin’ so fly like a G6.

- “ Like a G6” by The Far East Movement

This may be a sad story.

And what better way to start a potentially sad story than with one of the worst songs recorded in the 21st century.  “Like a G6” is an aggressively stupid song that celebrates bottle service, getting drunk, and the inability to rhyme the word “six” with any word other than itself. And I love it. In fact, I’ m listening to it on repeat right now. But I didn’t always feel that way.

Early last summer I was blissfully unaware of the existence of “ Like a G6.” That was a time in my life I like to call “ July.” I had just broken up with my Australian Carney Girlfriend (ACG) and started dating a 21-year-old (let’s call her Renee). I was 34 at the time. In a span of a few weeks I quickly went from feeling like Yahoo Serious in “ Yahoo Serious” to Woody Allen in “ Manhattan.”

When people hear that you’re dating a 21-year-old at my age, the response is roughly divided down gender lines. Ladies think you’re a horrible person and dudes are too busy giving you constant high fives to say much of anything. But in reality, they’ re both wrong. The guys who think it’s awesome that I could “bag” a 21-year-old “ chick” think that it’s cool that I somehow beat out other 21 year olds boys for this privilege. Well, that’s exactly correct: I beat out other 21 year old boys. Talk about a hollow victory. If you know how to use deodorant and don’t bring 40s to parties, you’re doing better than the average 21-year-old boy. And if you have a job, well, you’ re basically an astronaut in comparison. I remember when I was 21 years old, I had a fully shaved head with just two horns sculpted out of a cockscomb like tuft of hair on my forehead. My political views consisted of yelling the word fuck a lot, and my diet consisted of bags of UTZ potato chips filled with the free chili and cheese at 7-11 and then squeezed into my mouth like a disgusting charcuterie toothpaste. Being more attractive than a 21-year-old boy is like being more attractive than an orangutan wearing suspenders. (Actually, that sounds adorable… make him covered in shit, too.)

And for the ladies that think that I’ m a horrible person merely for contemplating this act, let me defend myself (however poorly.) First off, she was NOT in college: she had graduated early. When I asked her out I thought she was 24. And, finally, she was very mature for her age. There. I said it. I said the thing that you end up saying when you date someone significantly younger than you: “ She’s really mature.” I caught myself saying that. Also, the amazing, “Guys, she’s 21 and three-quarters.” Yes, I actually said that. I had become officially creepy, and, ok, I was a bit uncomfortable with it. Renee and I talked about the age difference a lot, but she didn’t care, and I have to admit, I really did like her. She was smart and savvy and well traveled and funny. We had a good time together. I was just out of a long-term relationship and was severely confused and hurt. I was having fun and so was she.

About three weeks after our first date, I took a road trip to visit one of my oldest friends, Stu, who lived in Baltimore. I had lived in Charm City in the mid 90s. I loved and still love that city. But, if I’m honest, I also kind of hate it. Baltimore has a weird way of creating a complex relationship between itself and it’s citizenry. I always like to say that I think of Baltimore the way I think of my autistic, alcoholic cousin: most of the time I’m like, “ What are you doing?” and every once in a while I’m like, “ That IS how many nickels are in that jar! You’ re a little bit of magic, aren’t you Baltimore?”

15 minutes after beginning my drive to Baltimore I realized I had forgotten my music. So I started scanning the radio stations, and somewhere around the Molly Pitcher rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike, I heard it for the first time: Poppin’ bottles in the ice, like a blizzard, When we drink we do it right getting’ slizzard. I shuddered. “Did they just invent a word to rhyme with blizzard?” I thought. I said a prayer for modern music and kept driving, kept scanning. I then proceeded to hear that song six times in a four-hour span. I began going through what I can only imagine are the emotional stages of grief after being taken hostage. At first I was in denial: “ No! No! There is no way that this is actually a popular song!” Next came Anger: “ Rhyming the word six with itself over and over?! Are you kidding me?!” I would spend countless minutes yelling words that rhymed with six: fix, mix, kicks, sticks, licks, spicks (Accidentally racist!) Next, came Acceptance, “ Our culture is in a nose dive towards ultimate destruction and this is the song they will play on the deck of our Titanic as we sink into the icy depths of environmental, spiritual, and mental self destruction.“ And then, finally, in a perfect Stockholm Syndrome moment, I started to identify with my captor and began singing along. Soon I was unconsciously turning it up when it came on the radio. It had done what all pop songs from the beginning of time have done – beaten down my conscious defenses and infected my brain with its vapid, hooky refrain. By the time I got to Baltimore, I was ready to tell Stu, “ Let’s get slizzard!”…

Read the rest at: http://issuu.com/overflow.magazine/docs/summer11-web

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