dirty work to my doorman. I tell the girl I’m going on vacation for one to seven weeks and that she can pick up her stuff whenever. Then I give the doorman an unmarked package and tell him to give it to the first girl who inquires. I’d write her name on it, but I’m not sure if it’s spelled with two L s, or is Stacey.
I never lose an article of clothing at a girl’s place. When I get dressed to go out on a Saturday night, I think of the ensemble I’ve put together as one would of his fellow marines—leave no man behind. Besides, I need that light-blue T-shirt. I only have seven T-shirts. I lose one, that fucks up the rotation. If we’re at her place, when we get naked I always stack my possessions in an orderly fashion on the floor. Socks go into my Cons, followed by wallet in the left sneaker, watch and BlackBerry in the right, and T-shirt stuffed into jeans. (I also don’t pull the hide-the-belt trick and leave it safely in its loops.) If I realize at dawn that I’ve suffered from a severe case of beer goggles, this tidy arrangement allows me to quickly scoop up my shit, run into the hallway in my boxers, and get dressed in the elevator.
----
AMBITIOUS IDEAS
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about giving back to the community, and I’ve come up with an innovative proposal. What I’d like to do is open a thrift store—to benefit charity—that’s stocked with the clothing and accessories that chicks leave in guys’ apartments and never claim. There would be an entire section full of wife-beaters. It would be glorious.
I’d also like to invent some sort of one-night-stand pre-nup. Like in exchange for promising to call you within a week, you can’t talk shit about me to your friends. Or in exchange for arranging the expedient return of all articles of clothing you leave behind, you promise not to steal the sweatpants I give you for the walk home. It’s pretty ingenious. Now if only I could get a girl to sign it while wasted in the back of a cab on the way to my place.
----
Claudio once got so drunk that he hooked up with a girl, the next day she was gone, and he couldn’t remember anything. So we’re trying to figure out what the hell happened, and he finds this lone flip-flop that she must have somehow left underneath his bed. We were staring at it, and finally I said, “Dude, who leaves behind one shoe? I think you might have fucked Cinderella.” Now you may scoff at the idea of fucking Cinderella, but believe it or not, I banged Sleeping Beauty. I’m not kidding. I was on tour in Orlando, I met this girl after a show, and her actual day job was playing Sleeping Beauty at Disney World. So we hooked up, and the next morning I checked out of my hotel and left her passed out in the bed. I figured she was used to it.
THE LONGEST WALK OF SHAME
One year, I was on tour in Arizona and I woke up the morning after a show in some random chick’s bed. My first thought was, “I gotta get the hell out of here!” So I popped out of bed, grabbed my wallet and cell phone, tiptoed down the stairs, got dressed, busted out the front door, ran onto the sidewalk, and realized…where the fuck am I? I was on a tree-lined street in the suburbs of Tucson. There were no cabs and no one around. I had no clue where I was. I was officially lost on the walk of shame.
Just as I was trying to figure out my next move, my phone rang. It was one of my buddies in New York. It was 9 a.m. there; he was already in the office and was just calling to leave a message asking how the show went. I seized the opportunity. “Dude,” I pleaded, “you gotta help me! I hooked up with this chick and now I’m lost in the middle of Tucson.” I paused, looked around, noticed a street sign, then exclaimed, “Google Map this address!”
Soon my friend had pinpointed my location on Google Earth and, scanning the area, noticed a hospital about six blocks north by northwest of my position. I knew I could get a cab at the
I never lose an article of clothing at a girl’s place. When I get dressed to go out on a Saturday night, I think of the ensemble I’ve put together as one would of his fellow marines—leave no man behind. Besides, I need that light-blue T-shirt. I only have seven T-shirts. I lose one, that fucks up the rotation. If we’re at her place, when we get naked I always stack my possessions in an orderly fashion on the floor. Socks go into my Cons, followed by wallet in the left sneaker, watch and BlackBerry in the right, and T-shirt stuffed into jeans. (I also don’t pull the hide-the-belt trick and leave it safely in its loops.) If I realize at dawn that I’ve suffered from a severe case of beer goggles, this tidy arrangement allows me to quickly scoop up my shit, run into the hallway in my boxers, and get dressed in the elevator.
----
AMBITIOUS IDEAS
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about giving back to the community, and I’ve come up with an innovative proposal. What I’d like to do is open a thrift store—to benefit charity—that’s stocked with the clothing and accessories that chicks leave in guys’ apartments and never claim. There would be an entire section full of wife-beaters. It would be glorious.
I’d also like to invent some sort of one-night-stand pre-nup. Like in exchange for promising to call you within a week, you can’t talk shit about me to your friends. Or in exchange for arranging the expedient return of all articles of clothing you leave behind, you promise not to steal the sweatpants I give you for the walk home. It’s pretty ingenious. Now if only I could get a girl to sign it while wasted in the back of a cab on the way to my place.
----
Claudio once got so drunk that he hooked up with a girl, the next day she was gone, and he couldn’t remember anything. So we’re trying to figure out what the hell happened, and he finds this lone flip-flop that she must have somehow left underneath his bed. We were staring at it, and finally I said, “Dude, who leaves behind one shoe? I think you might have fucked Cinderella.” Now you may scoff at the idea of fucking Cinderella, but believe it or not, I banged Sleeping Beauty. I’m not kidding. I was on tour in Orlando, I met this girl after a show, and her actual day job was playing Sleeping Beauty at Disney World. So we hooked up, and the next morning I checked out of my hotel and left her passed out in the bed. I figured she was used to it.
THE LONGEST WALK OF SHAME
One year, I was on tour in Arizona and I woke up the morning after a show in some random chick’s bed. My first thought was, “I gotta get the hell out of here!” So I popped out of bed, grabbed my wallet and cell phone, tiptoed down the stairs, got dressed, busted out the front door, ran onto the sidewalk, and realized…where the fuck am I? I was on a tree-lined street in the suburbs of Tucson. There were no cabs and no one around. I had no clue where I was. I was officially lost on the walk of shame.
Just as I was trying to figure out my next move, my phone rang. It was one of my buddies in New York. It was 9 a.m. there; he was already in the office and was just calling to leave a message asking how the show went. I seized the opportunity. “Dude,” I pleaded, “you gotta help me! I hooked up with this chick and now I’m lost in the middle of Tucson.” I paused, looked around, noticed a street sign, then exclaimed, “Google Map this address!”
Soon my friend had pinpointed my location on Google Earth and, scanning the area, noticed a hospital about six blocks north by northwest of my position. I knew I could get a cab at the
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