Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates (9 page)

Sadly, after sitting with upper management and discussing my current contract at length, the Big Club has decided to let me go and to move in a different direction. Perhaps she is looking for a younger, more professional hitter . . . someone who concentrates on their raw footwork rather than making a web gem. Perhaps my lack of plate discipline or high strike out rates on Saturday nights was too much to bear. Maybe having a little too much pine tar on my bat at times rubbed management the wrong way . . . but I'm a ball player, god damn it, and I was born this way. No matter what the issues were, I'll look back on my time with the Big Club with fond memories. I am glad there is no bad blood, and I even look forward to revisiting the clubhouse in the future (probably in August, when she misses me after a bad date and offers me a one-time, one-night appearance for Dave Stangle Bobble Head night).

That being said, I am looking forward to my free agency period—projected to last through at least 2016. I plan on taking my training seriously and visiting every ball club in the majors, multiple times. I'll take it all in. Spring Training . . . the Arizona Fall League . . . Dominican Winter League . . . AAA clubs in Murray Hill . . . hell, AA clubs! Don't be surprised if you catch me down at NYU poaching in High Single A ball either. There is some real talent down there.

I also plan on working with the game's best scouts. I am going to spend countless hours in the batting cage with Howard Freedman, one of the best hitting coaches in the game (as well as Ted Clifton, arguably the best bunter in the game). I'll be doing the bulk of my training at The Safe House at 41 St. Marks Place—5th floor. I'm confident that within The Safe House I'll find all the necessary elements for a ball player to succeed. My strength and conditioning coach, Anthony Hubbert, has promised to whip me into shape mentally, physically, and chemically. With hard work and determination, I will emerge as a 2016/2017 prize acquisition.

I look forward to meeting you in competition on the field!

Step 2: Okay, Now Get Out There and Get Weird

I've got a buddy named Tim. Today he is a ruthless titan of industry, a reckless socialite, and owns several custom-tailored pairs of pajama pants. Back when we all moved to New York City, though? Tim was an animal. He was the first person I ever heard say “Let's get weird!” with regularity, before everyone else started saying it. He would say “Let's get weird!” so often at Whiskey Town that the bar eventually had it printed on the back of their shirts. One could argue that was the original source of the entire phrase. Do you know how big that is? It's like starting the Macarena craze back in the nineties. No wonder Tim made it big. The writing was on the wall from day one. He had a point back then, too. Get weird. Hey, why the fuck not? No one is judging you.

Post-breakup is the biggest judgment-free zone one is ever allowed. No one will look twice. And if they do, it's because they
aren't
having enough fun in your newfound singleness. Mix it up. Don't say no. Sleep on a stranger's floor. Sleep on couches. Wake up across the border. Watch the sun come up. Black out before it goes down. If you're looking for inspiration, watch Mike for a night (fucking lunatic). You've got a perfectly legitimate excuse to act a fool. You've got nothing to lose. I'm not endorsing completely reckless behavior, but don't be shy. You have no commitments, no expectations, no limits. Hey, here's something you can do now that you couldn't do before—have sex with some different people. Actually, be reckless! Look at you, you're a catch! This is one of the few times in your life you can mow down everything in your path and all you'll ever hear is “good for you” followed by a firm pat on the back. The world is your oyster and that oyster has a vagina. Or a peener. Or maybe both! You need to get back out there. You need to make mistakes. You need to make a lot of mistakes. You need to sleep with people you don't actually feel anything for.

The accepted philosophy for so long has been that it's shameful to have sex with someone you don't care about. What about how nerve-racking it is to have sex with someone you
do
care about? You have to show up, be fair, bring your A-game, all of your cards are already on the table. You already know your borders and hers, the stuff she will and won't do. And guess what? There are no surprises! Fuck that, I love surprises! Not
“surprise! I have herpes!”
surprises, but cool and interesting ones where you think things like
Is she a squirter?
or,
How did she just make me pee a little?
One of the first completely random women I tricked into going to bed with me post-BS was this super-cute black chick. Yup! I had never been with a black chick before. When she took off her shirt and I had these awesome black chick boobies in front of me, I didn't even know where to start. I love boobs, and this was like having two
really
different and dark ones with Hershey kisses on them. The Hershey kisses were her nipples. Did you put that together? Oh, and as an added bonus, she looked like Hillary from
Fresh Prince
. Do you know how many times I beat off to Hillary as a kid? This was like beating off to Hillary . . . while
inside
Hillary! Total mind blower.

Don't be afraid to mix it up in a weird way, too. Lord knows I did. As long as you walk away clean and with a good story, then you'll be left in a better place than you were before. I once got mixed up with an older gal up in Saratoga Lake. I'm not even sure she qualified as a gal anymore; she was forty-five years old. Was she hot? Nope. Not remotely. Maybe in 1988, but probably not since 1995. She was a heavy smoker, pretty skanky. It doesn't take much to hook a guy so soon after a breakup, and it didn't take much to hook me. I'll never forget how just-attractive-enough for me she looked in her “JUICY” velour jumpsuit over her middle-aged-but-still-trying bikini. It's all right, Miss Lady, I'm picking up what you're putting down. You're a divorcee and I've had twenty-five Twisted Teas on my dad's pontoon boat today. Let's hop into your Sebring convertible, head back to the raised ranch you mentioned you were awarded in the divorce, and juuuuuust figure it out. I can't tell you how pleased I was to find that she shaved her forty-five-year-old vagina. I know that wasn't a thing with her generation, so I didn't expect it, but if she's reading this right now, I'd like her to know I appreciated the effort. To this day, she represents the biggest age gap in who I've been with.

Months after that old bag and I had our way with one another, I found out that she has a son named Jared. He is my age. Weird, right? What's weirder is that upon finding that out, I immediately looked for, found, and friended Jared on Facebook. It has been years, and he hasn't confirmed me yet. Maybe he knows I licked his mom's C-section scar that she was left with after giving birth to him. Do you think he can sense it? Ironically, that scar is why I friended him. I owe him a beer for keeping her slow cooker in pristine shape by opting to take the trapdoor out. Thanks, Jared!

Step 3: Find Your Wheelhouse

You're on a hot streak. You haven't turned down one opportunity. Now you're starting to put some miles on the tires, and you're just plain tired of buying new sheets. It's time to start thinking about narrowing down the playing field a little bit. I am by no means suggesting anyone should ever actively
look
for a relationship, unless your biology is ticking louder than that giant clock at the end of
Hook
. Remember, you can't force or arrange these things, but you can't be a wild mongoose forever, either. I think of it like
American Idol
. On each new season's premiere, they show all the crazy, eccentric nut jobs who are terrible. They're laughable, entertaining, funny, but ultimately have zero chance of making it to the next round. They are there purely for entertainment, for fluff, and for perspective on how good the coming contestants are going to be, comparatively. Then it's time to bring on the real talent and let America vote, God damn it. What's important to remember is you can't do this forever. I think about that all the time. You should only be single long enough to remember why you want to be with someone. Don't forget how nice romance can be. Don't forget how fun the opposite sex can be. I think about it constantly. It's why my go-to answer to any question involving my upcoming weekend plans is “probably just doing some laundry, hanging with Frank, and finding my future wife.”

(Dave)

Coming from upstate New York can mean a lot of things to a lot of people. Those who live in New York City define “upstate” as anything north of themselves. Upstate could be Westchester, Lake Placid, Hudson, Albany, or fucking Buffalo. Mike and I grew up outside Albany, and one of the best parts about it was living with direct access to the Adirondacks.

If you haven't been to the Adirondacks you should probably go. It's untouched by all the crap around it. The Adirondack Park represents a freeze frame in history, when America was the jacked football player at the bar drinking Budweiser, attracting babes, and doing the right thing with his heart of gold. Badass, but still deep. Now America is more like the guy who is four levels drunker than everyone at the bar, is sort of out of shape, won't stop talking, but is actually pretty amusing and a blast to party with. His moves aren't what they used to be, and he dresses like it's the late nineties, but oh hey, he just bought the entire bar a round of shots. Classic move, 2015 America! The Adirondacks, though? We're talking about a big old 6.1 million–acre park that Teddy Roosevelt put aside for us so we wouldn't forget just how far a breath of fresh air goes toward getting a fella back to neutral. You know how people toss around the term “God's country” when they're in a location so beautiful it makes them think they're hanging out with God? That expression comes from the Adirondacks. God owns lakefront property there. I'm not lying to you, guys. When people used to get tuberculosis or the clap or whatever the fuck people got inflicted with way back when, doctors would insist that somebody take 'em up north to the Adirondacks and just air it out.

Rivers, lakes, streams, bridges, golf, moose, maybe the occasional meth lab, but also nature, mountains, bearded men. The ADKs have old pickup trucks, antique stores, and racism. But also bald eagles! They've got it all. I'd like to buy a motorcycle with a sidecar, strap Frank the Bulldog in, and ride around the Adirondacks for days looking at stuff. You can come, too. If you do go to the Adirondacks, just make sure you don't spend much of your time in the southern end of Lake George. They call it the “gateway to the Adirondacks,” but really that just translates to the fake and gimmicky Adirondacks. It's the southernmost part of the park, where most people enter, and therefore has the most shit jammed into it. It's not even fun for kids: Olde Tyme photos, shitty mini golf, shitty arcades, guys with classic cars taking laps on the .5 miles of “strip,” 3-D movie theaters with rumble chairs that spray water at you, Frankenstein walking around outside of a fucking wax museum. All of that shit, with tetanus or rabies on 90 percent of everything you touch. All you'll find at the southern end of Lake George is cheap bachelorette parties, raunchy boat-up bars, and a whole mess of tourists down from Canada. Also,
tons
of Asians renting boats and wearing tacky orange life vests. It's a good time and a complete shithole all at the same time. Oh, did I mention the southern end of Lake George is exactly where this story takes place?

Way more important than the where is the who. Have I mentioned
The Entertainer
yet? If I haven't, I apologize. He's an important character, even though he's an inanimate object.
The Entertainer
is our dad's twenty-four-foot pontoon boat. It's technically called an “Aqua Patio,” which is nautical for
We made a living room fucking FLOAT, you guys! The Entertainer
is made of long couches, lounge chairs, several wooden tables, a carpet, a love seat with a cooler underneath it, and eighty-eight horses of American power to push it around. My parents bought it new in 1988 and it just won't quit. The most people Mike and I ever fit on
The Entertainer
was seventeen fully grown healthy adults, two large-breed dogs, and a full keg of Busch. Regular Busch, not Busch Light. We were nuts to butts on board
The Entertainer
that day; you couldn't see either pontoon coming out of the water. From the distance, I bet it looked like seventeen Jesuses partying on water. Coincidentally, that's how I picture
my
version of Jesus. Party Jesus is so cool, dancing on water and spreading the good news.

Back to
The Entertainer
. The thing has been through hell! It's twenty-seven years old and has lived the life of five boats.
The Entertainer
and Mike are actually the same age. Both have endured an insane amount of abuse to their bodies and Mike seems to be the only one showing signs of wear and tear.
The Entertainer
is indestructible, reliable, and authentic. It baffles me to hear our folks talk about the glory days when they first bought
The Entertainer
and partied on it harder than we ever would. I thought seventeen dancing Jesuses was a lot, but it doesn't break their record, which still stands to this day. They fit twenty-four people on board. It doesn't seem possible, but for some reason I believe them. When we had seventeen dancing Jesuses on board, I can distinctly remember thinking that if the smallest fish in the lake farts right now, we're all fucked. Twenty-four people? They tell it like they didn't even bat an eye.