Your parents are so much smarter than you. Not because of their educations or life experiences. I mean, they produced you. What a shame.
Your folks found out the secret of life: getting the hell out of the city and into a nice cookie cutter house in the suburbs.
Sure, the big city has it all: culture, food and diversity–but get the hell away before you go nuts.
 Weekly Drunk Text: You're like a real live Dilbert! -Bones |
Not to scare you, but it's likely that when you're shoved into the real world you'll have only seven vacation days a year and only a pocket full of change to spend. This obviously limits your weekend getaways, especially if you live far from home. Miami, Las Vegas and Iceland break your budget. You're screwed, unless you're willing to go on a staycation–a nice getaway to nowhere.
With only a pair of short pants, board shorts, an extra t-shirt, and a $7 Long Island Rail Road ticket, I hit exotic Roslyn on Long Island for the staycation of a century–my second of the summer of ‘08.
While you're dodging bullets in your city I'll be cleaning the gutters in my McMansion.You think you're way too cool for the ‘burbs? Shut up. You're wrong. Even the most seasoned city dweller needs some peace and quiet. The suburbs don't have crime, disease, hobos, hookers (kind of a downfall), overzealous cops or foreigners. You can drive your own car without getting sneezed on by some greasy stranger. The garbagemen are silent ninjas. The only drug addicts are un-MILFs sucking down Valium and Ambien. Even the bugs are courteous enough to let you sleep in–well, your parents may not be so courteous but still–the quiet is amazing.
The trick is to visit your friends' parents' house. Not your own.
Can't get a reservation at Dorsia or another local hotspot? Ethnic cuisine is just some way for foreigners to overcharge you for crap that only tourists eat in absurd countries. Local flavor is overrated when you can get Chipotle or Quizno's and the clerks can actually speak-a the English.
I don't care how many boutique openings, stabbings and celebrity sightings happen in my Pee Slope Brooklyn neighborhood. But take me to a suburban grocery store and you've got me revved up, baby. The Roslyn PathMark displays giant lobsters swimming in the aquarium, fruits and vegetables without cockroaches crawling over, and even an olive bar. I mean, you can find any type of olive. I thought there were just two kinds: black and martini. Wrong bitch! If your fancy neighborhood has that you're either a liar or inviting me over.
In the quiet ‘burbs, bums don't wander around liquor stores, but little skateboarders do. Both try to get you to buy them stuff, but the Tony Hawk Juniors want to pay and compliment you on your coolness. Homeless Joe just wants another handout. Bum. Granted, most un-urban booze marts rarely carry enough of the necessities like fine Irish whiskey or malt liquor, but they do horde stockades of wide beer selections like Coors Light, Bud Light, Miller Lite and Corona. And really, what else do you need?
The major downside of the outer-city is the supreme lack of chicks. They're either in high school, high school dropouts, or high school teachers. Besides what porn conveys, most high school English teachers look like they've been bobbing for brass knuckles and winning Best Cottage Cheese Butt Contests, not giving you "extra credit" in the form of deepthroating.
If a hot girl does live in the suburbs, it's nearly a requirement that she lives with her parents or her boyfriend–who probably drives the town's local tow truck and hits gawkers with his tire iron collection.
Drinking in a suburban bar rules, because while your friend is catching up with all his old buddies, you're either the mysterious new guy or constantly getting mistaken for somebody else. People will either ask you what life in the big city is like or apologize for being a dick to you in high school. You're like a minor league celebrity.
I hate a lot of things about New York City, but most of all I hate that there aren't pools where I can swim and sunburn my pearly white skin. Drinking beers during the day only feels justified while I'm in a pool. Call me weird I guess. In the outer outer boroughs people not only live in houses, but houses with their own pools. My two roommates and I live in a dumpy three-bedroom apartment without a pool.
Owning the new iPhone, Wii or latest summer fashions doesn't mean shit when you've got a damn pool. Plus, it's still the least douchey way to see chicks in bikinis–besides the beach of course.
But make sure you know your audience at the pool. In the East Hills Community Aquatic Park in Roslyn, people from the top of the waterslide could tell I was a Gentile in a Jewish territory. (Not that way, dicks). My skin owns 91% of the tattoos in the county. The Chosen People don't believe in body art…well, besides the Holocaust tats–those are hardcore.
With all my ink, the residents of Roslyn still wonder in hushed tones if I'm in a street gang dedicated to Darth Vader, dinosaurs and robots.
I live in New York City. I get "It." Every minute there's something new and exciting going on. A new bar, celebrity, gunfight, boutique opening, t-shirt, drug, painting, scandal and dance party. Guess what? I can't afford to do anything except sit in my shoebox and sweat my ass off. Maybe if I feel like heading to Starbucks or ordering a pizza from Domino's, I'm going to do it and won't feel guilty for not buying locally. Screw the local economy. Give me a tasty piece of corporate food that tastes the same everywhere I go.
You want my sheik apartment in Pee Slope, go ahead and take it. I'll move into your parents' basement and live it up the way it should be.
While you're dodging bullets in your city I'll be cleaning the gutters in my McMansion.
Take that suckas!
Screw South Beach, Vegas, NYC and LA. So there's nothing going on in yuppie ‘burban burbs like Highlands Ranch, Eagle Claw Lake City and Whitebread Vanilla Village. That's exactly what I want to do after a shitty day of work: absolutely nothing. Thank goodness for the glorious staycation to give me a little taste of the good life.